CHAPTER VII.
While the events in the preceding chapter were taking place, upstairs in the room given to Muriel and Dora a very different state of affairs existed. Dora, young as she was, was literally worn out from the unaccustomed fatigue, lack of her regular meals, and made dull and languid by the sleeping-potion which Pierson had forced Muriel to give her. So the poor girl fell heavily on the bed and slept almost at once.
Muriel was glad of this, for it kept her mind continually on the alert trying to answer Dora’s questions as to where Bennie and her father were. The young girl, with Bennie’s name upon her lips, constantly kept Muriel in a nervous tremor. Muriel knew well that Pierson intended to kill Dora as soon as he could do so with safety, and she was also well aware of what he intended to do with herself, for she understood his vicious nature as his own mother never had.
So Muriel kept always on the alert to watchfor John’s murderous intentions, scarcely ate and was afraid to sleep, lest he should come, with his fell determination, and kill them both while asleep.
So weary was Dora that she knew nothing of the noise in the bar-room just beneath her. Muriel heard the shots plainly, but, hearing the noisy bursts of laughter, she judged the matter rightly. She knew something of the habits of the rough but good-hearted men in this region. She was much more afraid of John Pierson and his villainous ally, Dopey, than of all the wildest cowboys or miners in the State.
Toward dusk Dora opened her eyes, to find Muriel beside her, watching lest she should awaken and try to run away. Dora clung to Muriel as her only friend, and the more helpless she grew, the more Muriel loved her.
The conscience that had so long lain dormant or stifled now made its presence known, and the great mystery of an awakening soul was taking place in Muriel. She went over each lawless act of her life in her mind, and with each fresh remembrance she quailed in horror at herself. Now she was like a mother being robbed of her child. John Pierson could not harm Dora without first killing her—on that she was determined. She had given Dora the potion more forthe child’s own sake than at John’s orders, for without it Dora might have become violent, and so it would have brought matters to a climax, and one full of danger.
Muriel had tried twice to send a telegram to Dora’s father, but had been thwarted, so now all she could do was to watch over her.
As a last resort, Muriel resolved, in case of immediate danger, to appeal to the genuine chivalry of the men about. True, John would probably kill her, but what was her wrecked life worth? At least she could save the girl!
Dora’s love for Bennie was so innocent and trustful that it touched Muriel immeasurably, and it was still another reason why she must save the child, for so Dora was to this world-weary woman.
As Dora awoke, she sat up, saying:
“Oh, where did father and Bennie go? They were here just now. Oh, why didn’t you stop them? Oh, I want my father, my good father!”
At that moment Dora’s father was being covered comfortably by Shoshone and Loney not one hundred yards from where she was wailing for him.
“There, dearie. Don’t worry. We will soon find them. Don’t you want something to eat? You can have a nice, warm supper now in a littlewhile. Come, let me fix your hair and bathe your face and hands.”
“Do you think they will get here soon? I don’t see why they stay so. They must know that I am frightened. Father never left me alone so long.”
For the time being, Dora seemed to have forgotten Loney.
Muriel combed and dressed Dora’s thick, dark hair, comforting and consoling her with tender words all the while, until, bathed and refreshed, she waited with Muriel for supper. Indeed they needed it, as Pierson had kept them on the road for many hours on foot, making them climb ridges, and walk over arid stretches, until they were exhausted.
He did not wish to travel in the usual manner, as it would have been too public, and some one might recognize him, Muriel or Dora. Of Dopey he had no fear, for the lives of such as Dopey are like those of the rats—mostly underground and out of sight.
And it was part of his plan to half-starve both Muriel and Dora, but, being in the “hotel,” he dared not give rise to suspicion by neglecting to order food for them.
“Mr. Duffy,” said John, “my wife and daughter are so worn out with the trip that Iwould beg you to send their supper to their room, if it can be done.”
“Certainly it can be done, if it takes the whole outfit. I hope the young lady is better.”
“I fear she never will be better. Her last chance is the solitude of the mountains, and the air.”
“Did you come over in the stage?”
“No, we had a rig from—from—I don’t know what the name of the place is, but my daughter is so tender-hearted—and so difficult to manage sometimes—that she could not bear to see the horses pulling so, and insisted on walking. The driver told us the place was just over the rise, so—we walked, and itwasa walk!”
“I should think so. You will have your supper down here, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes; my man and I. This does seem to be a lively place, if I could judge by some certain sounds during the afternoon.”
“That was nothing, only the boys having some fun with a tenderfoot. You never saw such an outfit. A Jew with a horse—well, every boy on the range has given it a feed since it came, and it is eating yet!”
“Where is the tenderfoot, as you call him, now?”
“Oh, asleep in his little bed. Maybe he won’thave a headache in the morning! Oh, no; I guess not! And it was his first drink, too. Will you have one, sir, on me?”
“No, thank you. I never drink, but I’ll take a box of Henry Clays, if you have them.”
“I just have! You see, I keep them for the fellows from the mines. When they come down flush, nothing else is good enough for them. Then, by the time they have been here an hour they couldn’t tell what they’re smoking, so I have to give them cheaper ones. But this box has never been opened.”
“I am glad to get it. I expect we’ll go up in the mountains as soon as I can locate a place and get a shack. Then I’ll send to Cheyenne for our traps and settle down for a while. Any doctors about here?”
“No, not within thirty miles. But there is a woman here—no, an angel—and it’s Angel we call her, and when there is sickness or trouble she is right there. If you like, I’ll interjuce her to your ladies the next time she comes in. She was here to-day to dinner. She is as fine a woman as ever walked the earth, the Angel is.”
“Thank you, but just at present I want my daughter to be kept strictly secluded. The sight of strangers always makes her worse. I am sure that we shall be glad to know this lady—theAngel, as you call her—later. My wife will, I know.”
Then Pierson took out a handful of cigars, paid for the box, and asked Snakes to keep the box handy, as he was going to have supper and a smoke. He signaled to Dopey and they went to the dining-room, where Dopey astonished himself, as well as the waiters, by the quantity of food he consumed. He could not have eaten as much in the city in a week.
“Say, boss,” said he, in a raucous whisper, “dey’s no limit to de feed here, is dere? An’ see what a pile I’m layin’ away. I t’ink de air agrees wid me here.”
“It is not the air so much as the absence from the dope-chair, so try to get that through your head, and never touch it again.”
“I don’t care, now, if I never do, but if I gits back on de Bowery—I couldn’t say. Say, is de ladies eatin’?”
“They are, I expect. Mum’s the word. Eat your supper and never talk when there is anyone about.”
This last was said in a tone so low that none could hear it.
There was some speculation among the men who were regular boarders and the miners and cowboys who generally rode in in the eveningwhenever they were at liberty, and the peremptory order from Snakes to refrain from shooting, on account of the young lady upstairs, had the effect of a damper upon their noisy gaiety. They were filled with sympathetic pity for the poor young girl who was so beautiful.
In the meantime Pierson, followed by Dopey, went on up the run to smoke and be able to concoct their plans for getting rid of Muriel and Dora.
They passed not ten feet from the tiny tent where the bereaved father was lying unconscious from the fumes of the abominable stuff he had been forced to drink to amuse the men. The poor shoemaker and the little boy lay there together, safe in the hands of the men about and sheltered by the great mountains beyond, but they would never have awakened to the glory of the morning had Pierson known who slept under the tent.