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The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

by Ridgwell Cullum · English · Gutenberg #29628 · 679,992 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

Author: Ridgwell Cullum


        
Release date: August 7, 2009 [eBook #29628]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN WOMAN: A STORY OF THE MONTANA HILLS ***




Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)









 The Golden Woman


 A Story of the Montana Hills


 By RIDGWELL CULLUM

 AUTHOR OF
 "The Way of the Strong," "The Law Breakers,"
 "The Trail of the Axe,"  Etc.

 With Frontispiece in Colors

 A. L. BURT COMPANY

 Publishers        New York

 Published by Arrangement with GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY




 Copyright, 1913, by
 GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
 Published February, 1916

 _All rights reserved_
 Printed in U. S. A.




[Illustration: "It's the same book, dear, only a different chapter."]




Contents


       I. AUNT MERCY                                   9
      II. OVER THE TELEPHONE                          20
     III. THE PARIAH                                  26
      IV. TWO MEN OF THE WILDERNESS                   39
       V. THE STEEPS OF LIFE                          54
      VI. OUT OF THE STORM                            73
     VII. A SIMPLE MANHOOD                            85
    VIII. THE SECRET OF THE HILL                      96
      IX. GATHERING FOR THE FEAST                    106
       X. SOLVING THE RIDDLE                         110
      XI. THE SHADOW OF THE PAST                     121
     XII. THE GOLDEN WOMAN                           133
    XIII. THE CALL OF YOUTH                          149
     XIV. A WHIRLWIND VISIT                          158
      XV. THE CLAIMS OF DUTY                         165
     XVI. GOLD AND ALLOY                             177
    XVII. TWO POINTS OF VIEW                         187
   XVIII. WHEN LIFE HOLDS NO SHADOWS                 204
     XIX. A STUDY IN MISCHIEF                        217
      XX. THE ABILITIES OF MRS. RANSFORD             229
     XXI. THE MEETING ON THE TRAIL                   240
    XXII. A MAN'S SUPPORT                            246
   XXIII. THE BRIDGING OF YEARS                      258
    XXIV. BEASLEY PLAYS THE GAME                     273
     XXV. BUCK LAUGHS AT FATE                        286
    XXVI. IRONY                                      301
   XXVII. THE WEB OF FATE                            313
  XXVIII. A BLACK NIGHT                              325
    XXIX.  BEASLEY IN HIS ELEMENT                    334
     XXX. THE MOVING FINGER                          356
    XXXI. THE JOY OF BEASLEY                         364
   XXXII. STRONGER THAN DEATH                        374
  XXXIII. THE TEMPEST BREAKS                         389
   XXXIV. THE EYES OF THE HILLS                      402
    XXXV. FROM OUT OF THE ABYSS                      407
   XXXVI. THE CATACLYSM                              420
  XXXVII. ALONE--                                    427
 XXXVIII. --IN THE WILDERNESS                        432
   XXXIX. LOVE'S VICTORY                             439




The Golden Woman




CHAPTER I

AUNT MERCY


An elderly woman looked up from the crystal globe before her. The
sound of horse's hoofs, clattering up to the veranda, had caught her
attention. But the hard, gray eyes had not yet recovered their normal
frigidity of expression. There were still traces in them of the
groping mind, searching on, amidst the chaos of a world unseen. Nor
was Mercy Lascelles posing at the trade which yielded her something
more than her daily bread. She had no reason for pose. She was an
ardent and proficient student of that remote science which has for its
field of research the border-land between earthly life and the
ultimate.

For some moments she gazed half-vacantly through the window. Then
alertness and interest came back to her eyes, and her look resumed its
normal hardness. It was an unlovely face, but its unloveliness lay in
its expression. There was something so unyielding in the keen,
aquiline nose and pointed chin. The gray eyes were so cold. The
pronounced brows were almost threatening in their marking and
depression. There was not a feature in her face that was not handsome,
and yet, collectively, they gave her a look at once forbidding, and
even cruel.

There was no softening, there never was any softening in Mercy
Lascelles' attitude toward the world now. Years ago she may have given
signs of the gentler emotions of her woman's heart. It is only
reasonable to suppose that at some time or other she possessed them.
But now no one was ever permitted beyond the harsh exterior. Perhaps
she owed the world a grudge. Perhaps she hoped, by closing the doors
of her soul, her attitude would be accepted as the rebuff she intended
to convey.

"Is that you, Joan?" she demanded in a sharp, masterful tone.

"It certainly is, auntie," came the gentle, girlish response from the
veranda.

The next moment the door of the little morning-room opened, and a tall
girl stood framed in its white setting.

Joan Stanmore possessed nothing whatever in common with her aunt. She
was of that healthy type of American girl that treats athletics as a
large part of her education. She was tall and fair, with a mass of
red-gold hair tucked away under the mannish hat which was part of her
dark green, tightly-fitting riding habit. Her brow was broad, and her
face, a perfect oval, was open and starred with a pair of fearless
blue eyes of so deep a hue as to be almost violet. Her nose and mouth
were delicately moulded, but her greatest beauty lay in the exquisite
peach-bloom of her soft, fair skin.

Joan Stanmore was probably the handsomest girl in St. Ellis City, in a
suburb of which she and her aunt lived. She was certainly one of the
most popular girls, in spite of the overshadowing threat of an aunt
whom everybody disliked and whom most people feared. Her disposition
was one of serene gentleness, yet as fearless and open as her
beautiful eyes suggested. She was of a strongly independent spirit
too, but, even so, the woman in her was never for a moment jeopardized
by it; she was never anything but a delightful femininity, rejoicing
wholesomely in the companionship of the opposite sex.

She and her aunt had lived for five years in this suburb of St. Ellis.
They had left New York for the southwest because the profession of
the elder woman had gained unpleasant notoriety in that city of
contradictions. The calling of the seer had appealed well enough to
the citizens individually, but a wave of moral rectitude, hurling its
municipal government spluttering upon a broken shore of repentance,
had decided it to expurgate such wickedness from its midst, lest the
local canker become a pestilence which might jeopardize the immortal
soul of the citizen, and, incidentally, hand the civic control over to
the opposition party.

So aunt and orphaned niece had moved westward, seeking immunity in a
region where such obscure professions were regarded with a more
lenient eye. Joan had little enough sympathy with her relative's
studies. She neither believed in them, nor did she disbelieve. She was
so young, and so full of that vitality which makes for the wholesome
enjoyment of life, as viewed through eyes as yet undimmed by the
bitterness of experience, that she had neither time, place, nor
serious thought for such matters. Her only interest, if interest it
could be called, was an occasional wonderment at the extent of the
harvest Aunt Mercy reaped out of the credulity of the merchant and
finance-princes of the city. This, and the state of her aunt's health,
as pronounced by Dr. Valmer, were the only things which ever brought
such matters as "crystal gazing" and scientific astrology into her
mind. Otherwise horoscopes, prognostications, warnings, omens, passed
her by as mere words to raise a smile of youthful derision at the
expense of those who heaped money for such readings into the seer's
lap.

Joan was in no way dependent upon her aunt. Living with her was a
matter of personal choice. Mercy Lascelles was her only relative for
one thing, and the elder woman being a lonely spinster, it seemed only
right that Joan should make her home under her scarcely hospitable
roof. Then, too, there was another reason which influenced the girl.
It was a purely sentimental reason, such as at her age might well
appeal to her. A whisper had reached her to the effect that, hard and
unsympathetic as her Aunt Mercy was, romance at one time had place in
her life--a romance which left her the only sufferer, a romance that
had spelt a life's disaster for her. To the adamantine fortune-teller
was attributed a devotion so strong, so passionate in the days of her
youth that her reason had been well-nigh unhinged by the hopelessness
of it. The object of it was her own sister's husband, Joan's father.
It was said that at the moment of his death Mercy Lascelles' youth
died too. All softness, all gentleness passed out of her life and left
her the hard, prematurely aged woman she now was.

As a consequence Joan felt that her duty lay beside a woman whom Fate
had treated so ill; that duty demanded that an effort must be made to
bring a little brightness into so solitary and loveless a life.

So her choice was made. And as she grew accustomed to the stern
companionship she often found herself wondering how a woman of such
curiously harsh disposition could ever have been the victim of such a
passion as was attributed to her. It was almost inconceivable,
especially when she tried to picture the father, whom she had never
known, but who was reputed to be such an intensely human man, so full
of the many frailties of a Wall Street gambler.

Joan now saw the crystal lying in her aunt's lap. She saw, too, the
fevered eyes lifted to her face. And with an uncomfortable feeling of
disaster pending she moved across to the window-seat and flung herself
upon the pile of down cushions.

"I do hope you're not--not seeing things again, auntie," she said in
an anxious voice, her eyes fixed resentfully upon the detested
crystal. "You know Dr. Valmer forbade you--practicing for at least six
months," she added warningly.

"Dr. Valmer's a fool," came the sharp retort.

The girl flushed. It was not the words: it was the manner that could
so hurt. But this time she felt it her duty to continue. Her aunt's
health was seriously affected, and the doctor had warned her
personally about it.

"I dare say he is, auntie," she protested. "But you pay him good
dollars for being one. What is the use of it if you don't take his
advice?"

Just for a second a peculiar look flashed into Mercy's eyes. Then she
allowed them to drop to the crystal in her lap.

"Go and change your habit. It will keep you busy on your own affairs.
They need all your attention--just now."

The rudeness left Joan untouched. She was too seriously concerned.

Mercy Lascelles had only recently recovered from a bad nervous
breakdown, the result, so Dr. Valmer, the specialist, assured her, of
the enormous strain of her studies. He had warned Joan of the danger
to her aunt's mental balance, and begged her to use every effort to
keep her from her practice. But Joan found her task well-nigh
impossible, and the weight of her responsibility was heavy upon her.

She turned away to the window and gazed out. She was feeling rather
hopeless. There were other things worrying her too, small enough
things, no doubt, but sufficiently personal to trouble her youthful
heart and shadow all her thought with regret. She was rapidly learning
that however bright the outlook of her life might be there were always
clouds hovering ready to obscure the smiling of her sun.

She looked at the sky as though the movement were inspired by her
thought. There was the early summer sun blazing down upon an already
parching earth. And there, too, were the significant clouds, fleecy
white clouds for the most part, but all deepening to a heavy, gray
density. At any moment they might obscure that ruddy light and pour
out their dismal measure of discomfort, turning the world from a
smiling day-dream to a nightmare of drab regret.

Her mood lightened as she turned to the picture of the garden city in
which they lived. It was called a garden city, but, more properly, it
was a beautiful garden village, or hamlet. The place was all hills and
dales, wood-clad from their crowns to the deepest hollows in which the
sandy, unmade roads wound their ways.

Here and there, amidst the perfect sunlit woodlands, she could see the
flashes of white, which indicated homes similar to their own. They
were scattered in a cunningly haphazard fashion so as to preserve the
rural aspect of the place, and constructed on lines that could under
no circumstances offend the really artistic eye. And yet each house
was the last word in modernity; each house represented the
abiding-place of considerable wealth.

Yes, there was something very beautiful in all this life with which
she was surrounded. The pity of it was that there must be those clouds
always hovering. She glanced up at the sky again. And with a shiver
she realized that the golden light had vanished, and a great
storm-cloud was ominously spreading its purplish pall.

At that moment her aunt's voice, low and significant, reached her from
across the room. And its tone told her at once that she was talking to
herself.

"You fool--you poor fool. It awaits you as surely as it awaits
everybody else. Ride on. Your fate awaits you. And thank your God it
is kept hidden from your blinded eyes."

Joan started.

"Auntie!"

A pair of cold, gray eyes lifted to her face. The shaking, bony hands
clutched nervously at the crystal. The eyes stared unseeingly into the
girl's face for some moments, then slowly the fever crept into them
again--the fever which the doctor had warned Joan against.

"Oh, auntie, put--put that away." Joan sprang from her seat and ran to
the other's side, where she knelt imploringly. "Don't--don't talk so.
You--frighten me." Then she hurried on as though to distract the
woman's attention. "Listen to me. I want to tell you about my ride. I
want to tell about----"

"You need tell me nothing. I know it all," Mercy broke in, roughly
pushing the clinging hands from about her spare waist. "You rode with
young Sorley this morning--Dick Sorley. He asked you to marry him. He
told you that since he had known you he had made a small fortune on
Wall Street. That he had followed you here because you were the only
woman in the world for him. He told you that life without you was
impossible, and many other foolish things only fitted for the
credulity of a young girl. You refused him. You regretted your refusal
in conventional words. And he rode away, back to his hotel, and--his
fate."

The girl listened breathlessly, wondering at the accuracy of this
harsh recapitulation of the events of her morning ride. But as the
final words fell from the seer's lips she cried out in protest--

"Oh, auntie. His fate? How? How? What do you mean? How do you know all
this?"

Joan had risen to her feet and stood eyeing her aunt in wonder and
amazement. The elder woman fondled her crystal in her thin hands. A
look akin to joy suddenly leapt into her burning eyes. Her lips were
parted so that they almost smiled.

"It is here, here. All here," she declared exultingly. "The mandates
of Fate are voiced amongst the stars, and the moving hand delineates
unerringly the enactments--here--here." She raised the crystal and
gazed upon it with eyes alight with ecstasy. "It is for the eye to
see, and for the mind to read. But the brain that comprehends must
know no thought of human passions, no human emotions. There is nothing
hidden in all the world from those who seek with the power of heart
and brain."

Joan's amazement passed. It was replaced by something like horror and
even terror as she listened. To her the words were dreadful, they
spoke of the woman's straining brain, and her thoughts flew to the
doctor's verdict. Was this the madness he had feared? Was this the
final crash of a brain driven to breaking-point? The questions flew
through her mind only to be swept aside by the recollection of what
her aunt had told her of her morning ride. It was true--true. Every
word of it. Where could the insanity lie? No--no. It could not be.
But--but--such a power!

Her thoughts were cut short. Again her aunt was speaking. But now her
voice had once more resumed its customary harshness. The fire had died
out of her eyes. Again the dreaded crystal was lying in her lap,
fondled by loving fingers. And something approaching a chuckle of
malice was underlying the words which flowed so rapidly from her thin
lips.

"Haven't you learned yet? Can't you read what the hand of Fate is
trying to point out to your blinded eyes? Did not the man Cahusac ask
you to marry him? Did not you refuse him? And did not he die of
typhoid within two weeks of committing that foolishness? And Charlie
Hemming. He dared to make love to you. What then? Didn't he make a
fortune on the Cotton Exchange? Didn't he tell you that it was you who
brought him his luck? Luck? Your luck is disaster--disaster disguised.
What happened? Hemming plunged into an orgie of riotous living when
you refused him. Didn't he squander his fortune, bolt to Mexico, and
in twelve months didn't he get shot as a rebel and a renegade, and
thus add himself to the list of the victims of your--so-called
'luck'? Luck! Oh, the madness, the blindness of it!"

The woman's passionate bitterness had lost all sense of proportion.
She saw only through her straining nerves. And the injustice of it all
brought swift protest to Joan's lips.

"You are wrong. You are cruel--bitterly, wickedly cruel, auntie," she
cried. "How am I responsible? What have I done?"

In an instant the gray eyes were turned upon her with something akin
to ferocity, and her voice rang with passion.

"Wrong? Cruel? I am stating undeniable facts. I am telling you what
has happened. And now I am going to tell you the result of your
morning's ride. How are you responsible? What have you done? Dick
Sorley has gone to his fate as surely as though you had thrust a knife
through his heart."

"Aunt! How--how dare----?"

"How dare I say such things? Because I am telling you the truth--which
you cannot bear to face. You must and shall hear it. Who are you to
escape the miseries of life such as we all have to suffer? Such as you
have helped to make _me_ suffer."

"Don't--don't!" Joan covered her face with her hands, as though to
shut out the sight of that cruel, working face before her--as though
to shut out of her mind the ruthless accusation hurled at her.

But the seer was full of the bitterness so long stored up in her
heart, and the moment had come when she could no longer contain it
beneath the cold mask she had worn for twenty years. The revelation
was hers. Her strange mind and senses had witnessed the scenes that
now held her in the grip of their horror. They had driven her to the
breaking-point, and no longer had she thought for anything but her own
sufferings, and the injustice that a pariah should walk at large,
unknown to the world, unknown to itself.

"Don't?" The woman laughed mirthlessly. Her thin lips parted, but the
light in her eyes was unrelenting. "I tell you it is so. Dick Sorley
has gone to his fate. Straight to his doom from your side. You sent
him to it. I have witnessed the whole enactment of it here--in this
crystal. You, and you alone, have killed him--killed him as surely as
though you had deliberately murdered him! Hark! That is the telephone
bell ringing----"

She paused as the shrill peal of the instrument rang through the room.
There was a prolonged ringing. Then it broke off. Then again and again
it rang, in short, impatient jerks.

"Go to it, girl. Go and listen to the message. You say I am cruel.
Hear what that senseless thing has to tell you. Listen to the voice at
the other end. It is at the hospital. The doctor is there, and he will
speak to you. And in a ward adjacent, your discarded lover
lies--dead."




CHAPTER II

OVER THE TELEPHONE


From the depths of her high-backed chair Mercy Lascelles stared at the
white door beyond which Joan had just vanished. Her gaunt figure was
no longer huddled over the fateful crystal she still clutched in her
two hands. Her brain was busy, and her eyes were hot and feverish.

She was not thinking of the girl. She was not even thinking of the
message traveling over the wire at that moment. That she knew. For her
it had no greater significance than that it was the corroboration
necessary to convince the girl who was receiving it--to convince her
of the truth of that which she had charged her with.

Her mind was far away, back in the dim years of her earlier womanhood.
Back amidst scenes of disaster through which she had long since
passed. All the old pain and suffering was at the surface again. Again
was she torn by the bitterness and injustice that had robbed her of
all that seemed good to her in life. Again through her mental picture
moved the figures of two men and one woman, the characters who went to
make up the cast of her wretched drama. Her feelings were once more
afire with hatred, hatred for one, and, for the others, a profound,
contemptuous bitterness.

But hatred was dominant. The memory of one of those men had always
power to drive her to the verge of madness. He was a handsome,
brown-haired man of powerful physique. A man whose gentle manner and
swift, hot temper she abhorred, and the memory of whose influence upon
her life had still power to grind to ashes every gentle feeling she
ever possessed.

It was of one of his terrible tempers she was thinking now. He had
displayed a fury she could never, would never forget. It was a memory
that tripped her even now at every turn, till it had become something
akin to an obsession.

Every detail of the scene was as clear cut in her mind as a hideous
cameo, every word he had uttered, the accusations, the insinuations he
had made. Even the room, with its simple furnishings, its neatness,
its air of care--her care--stood out sharply in her memory. She
remembered it all so well. She was in the midst of preparing Charles
Stanmore's supper, and Joan, only a couple of weeks old, was fast
asleep in an adjoining bedroom. He had chosen this time to call,
because he knew that she, Mercy, would be alone.

She remembered his handsome face clouded with sullen anger and
jealousy when she let him in at the door of the apartment. And then
his first words when he took up his position before the hard-coal
stove in the parlor--

"So you've pitched everything to the devil, and taken up your abode
with Charlie," he began, in tones of jealous fury. "And he--he is your
brother-in-law."

There was no mistaking his meaning. He intended that she should make
no mistake, for he added a laugh--a hateful laugh--to his words.

This was the man who had asked her to marry him almost numberless
times. This was the man whom she had refused time and again, making it
plain that, however hopelessly, her love was given to another. This
was the man who knew that she had come at her sister's death to care
for the little, new-born, motherless, baby girl, and help the man whom
she had always loved out of the hopeless dilemma in which he found
himself. This was the man who was the lifelong friend of Charles
Stanmore, whose mistress he was accusing her of having become.

She remembered the sudden anger which leapt to her brain. She
remembered, too, the thought which came in its midst, and formulated
her instant retort.

"Yes," she said coldly. "I have."

Then she saw the real man as she had now come to regard him. She
remembered the sudden blaze of his eyes, the ghastly pallor of his
face, the look of almost insane jealousy which he turned upon her. And
then came that never-to-be-forgotten insult, those words which had
seared themselves upon her woman's heart as though branded thereon
with red-hot irons.

"And you are the woman I have loved. Woman?" He laughed. "It's too
good for you. Do you know what we men call such creatures as you? All
this time you have waited--waited, and the moment your poor sister is
in her grave, almost before the blood in her veins is cold, you seize
your opportunity to fulfil your mad desire. Taking advantage of
Charlie's wretchedness and trouble, you force yourself upon him. You
force a position upon him from which there is no escape. The world
will accept the position at the value you intend, and he is powerless
to do anything but accept it too. You meant to have him, and I suppose
he is yours by now. And all this time I have wasted an honest love on
you--you----"

And she had answered him, calmly and deliberately, before he could
utter the filthy epithet she knew he intended.

"Please keep your voice down, or--or you'll wake little Joan."

Even now she could never quite understand her own attitude at the
moment. Something inside her was urging her to fly at his throat and
tear the foul words from it. Yet there was something gripping her,
something compelling her to a calmness she was powerless to resist.

Then, as swiftly as he had blazed into fury, had come a miraculous
change in the man. Perhaps it was the effect of her calm, perhaps it
was something in the man himself. Anyway the madness abruptly died out
of his eyes and left him shaking. He strove to speak, but no words
came. He passed his hand across his forehead as though to remove
something that was clouding his brain. He turned from her fixed stare
as though he could no longer support it. He moved across the room. He
hesitated. He turned to her. She did not see the movement, for her
back was now turned, but somehow she felt it.

Then she heard his footsteps again, and, finally, the rattle of the
door handle as he clutched it. After that came his voice. All the
anger, the jealousy, had gone out of it. It was low, gentle,
imploring. But she did not move.

"Mercy, Mercy! For--forgive me. I----"

"Never!"

Oh, the scorn, the hatred she had flung into the word!

The next she remembered was that he passed swiftly and silently from
the room. Then, then at last her woman's weakness, a weakness she now
so cordially despised, overcame her, and she fell into a chair and
wept.

But her weakness was short-lived. Her spirit rose in rebellion, and
her tears ceased to flow as the cruel iron entered her soul. She
pondered long and deeply, and presently she went on with her
preparations for Charles Stanmore's supper as though nothing unusual
had occurred.

Nor, when he came home, did she tell him, nor did she ever by word or
act permit the secret of that interview to pass out of her keeping.
But the memory of it was forever with her. Day and night she hugged it
to herself, she nursed it, and fostered it for all those twenty years,
the bitterness, the cruel injustice of the insult, grinding its way
till it became a part of the very essence of her being.

Suddenly a cry broke in upon her reverie. She started, and her eyes
lit with a gleam of satisfaction. Her mind had returned to the
present, and she called out--

"Joan!"

Without waiting for an answer she left her seat, and, crossing swiftly
to the door, flung it wide open.

Joan staggered in, and, dropping into the welcoming arms of a
rocking-chair, she buried her face in her hands.

Mercy Lascelles stood silently contemplating the bowed head. There was
no sympathy in her attitude. Her heart was cold and hard as steel. But
she was interested in the cause rather than the effect.

After a while the storm of grief slackened. The racking sobs came at
longer intervals. Then it was that Mercy Lascelles broke the silence.

"Well?" she demanded sharply.

The tear-stained face was slowly lifted, and the sight of the girl's
distress was heart-breaking.

"He is dead," Joan said in a choking voice. Then, with something like
resentment--"Are--are you satisfied?"

Mercy went back to her chair and her beloved crystal. And after a
moment she began to speak in a low, even tone, as though reciting a
well-learnt lesson.

"It was at the crossing of 36th Street and Lisson Avenue, here the
street cars cross, here some also turn off. It was the fault of his
horse. The creature shied at a heavy truck. Two cars were approaching
from east and west. The shying horse slipped on the granite paving,
fell, and was caught between the two meeting cars before they could
pull up. The horse was killed on the spot, and--the rider was----"

"Don't, auntie! Don't say it! Yes, yes, he was taken to the hospital,
and died of his injuries. But don't speak of his terrible mutilations.
I--I can't bear it."

Again Joan buried her face in her hands as though to shut out the
horror of it all. But the elder woman had no such scruples.

"Why harrow yourself with the picture?" she demanded brusquely.
"Imagination can add nothing to the fact. Tears will not change one
detail. They will only add to your distress. Dick Sorley left your
side to go to certain death. Nothing could have averted that. Such was
his fate--through you."




CHAPTER III

THE PARIAH


Joan suddenly threw up her head. There was resentment in the violet
depths of her eyes, and her whole expression had hardened. It was as
though something of her youth, her softness, had passed from her.

"You must tell me, auntie," she demanded in a tone as cold as the
other's. "I--I don't understand. But I mean to. You accuse me with the
responsibility of--this. Of responsibility for all that has happened
to those others. You tell me I am cursed. It is all too much--or too
little. Now I demand to know that which you know--all that there is to
know. It is my right. I never knew my father or mother, and you have
told me little enough of them. Well, I insist that you shall tell me
the right by which you dare to say such things to me. I know you are
cruel, that you have no sympathy for any one but--yourself. I know
that you grudge the world every moment of happiness that life
contains. Well, all this I try to account for by crediting you with
having passed through troubles of which I have no knowledge. But it
does not give you the right to charge me with the things you do. You
shall tell me now the reason of your accusations, or I will leave this
home forever, and will never, of my own free will, set eyes on you
again."

Mercy's thin lips parted into a half-smile.

"And I intend that you shall know these things," she replied promptly.
"You shall know them from my lips. Nor has any one more right to the
telling than I." The smile died abruptly, leaving her burning eyes
shining in an icy setting. "I am cruel, eh?" she went on intensely.
"Cruel because I have refused to bend beneath the injustice of my
fellows and the persecutions of Fate. Cruel because I meet the world
in the spirit in which it has received me. Why should I have sympathy?
The world has robbed me of the only happiness I ever desired. What
obligation, then, is mine? You are right. I have no sympathy for any
living creature--none!"

Joan offered no comment. She was waiting--waiting for the explanation
she had demanded. She was no longer the young girl just returned
flushed with the healthy glow of her morning ride. Life had taken on a
fresh tone for her since then. It seemed as if years had suddenly
passed over her head and carried her into the middle of life.

"You shall have your explanation," Mercy went on after a moment's
pause. "I will give it you from the beginning. I will show you how it
comes that you are a pariah, shedding disaster upon all men who come
under your influence."

"A pariah!"

Joan's eyes suddenly lit with horror at the loathsome epithet.

"Yes. Pariah!" There was no mistaking the satisfaction which the use
of the word seemed to give the other woman. In her eyes was a
challenge which defied all protest.

As Joan had no further comment she went on--

"But they were all blind--blind to the curse under which you were
born--under which you live. You shall have your wish. You shall know
the right which I have for charging these things at your door. And the
knowledge of it will forever shatter the last castle of your
day-dreams."

Something of awe took hold of the listening girl. Something of terror,
too. What was the mystery into which she was blindly delving? Knowing
her aunt as she did, she felt, by her manner, that her words were the
prelude to disclosures that meant disaster to herself. And as the
other proceeded her half-frightened eyes watched her, fascinated by
the deliberateness of manner and the passionate sincerity underlying
every word of the story she told.

"Listen," she said, checking her voice to a low, even monotone. "You
are the child of disaster if ever woman was. Your father was a poor,
weak fool, a big, handsome, good-hearted fool whom Nature had endowed
with nothing more than a perfect exterior. He was a Wall Street man,
of a sort. One of those gamblers who live on the fringe of the big
financial circles, and most of whom gather their livelihood from the
crumbs falling from the rich man's table, but are ready to steal them
when the fall is not sufficient to fill their hungry mouths. For three
years he and I were engaged to be married."

She paused, and her hot eyes dropped to the crystal in her lap. Then
she went on, with harsh sarcasm breaking the level of her tone--

"For three years we waited for the coming of that trifling luck which
would enable us to marry. For three years I worked silently, joyfully,
to fill the wonderful bottom drawer which never failed to inspire me
with courage and hope. You see I--loved your father."

Again she paused, and Joan forgot something of her own trouble as she
noted the evident pain these memories gave to her aunt.

"The luck came. It was small enough. But with the little money I had
it was just sufficient. The license was procured. The wedding was
fixed. And I--well, God was good, the world was good, and life was a
joy beyond all dreams. You see I, too, was young then. My only
relative was a younger sister. She was a beautiful girl with red-gold
hair. And she was in business in California. I sent for her to come to
the wedding."

Joan gave a tense sigh. She knew what was to follow. The red-gold hair
told its own story. Mercy Lascelles raised a pair of stony eyes, and
her thin lips were smiling.

"I can see you understand," she said, without emotion. "Yes, she came,
and she stole your father from me. Oh, yes! she was handsome enough to
steal any man. She was even more beautiful than you are. It was just
before we were to be married. Less than a week. A good time to steal
him from me--after three years of waiting." She laughed bitterly. "She
stole him, and I--I cursed her. Oh, I didn't cry out! I simply cursed
her, I cursed her offspring, and burned every garment I had made or
bought for the wedding in my parlor stove. I sat by and watched the
fire as it hungrily devoured each record of my foolish day-dreams. And
as each one vanished in cinder and smoke I cursed her from the very
bottom of my heart."

The woman laughed again, and Joan could not repress a shudder at the
sound.

"Twelve months she had of him. And during those twelve months both he
and she nearly drove me mad in their efforts to make me marry your
father's great friend and fellow gambler. His name doesn't matter. He
was a brown-haired creature, who was, if possible, a greater gambler
than your father. But unlike your father his luck was phenomenal. He
grew rich whilst Charles Stanmore, with every passing week, grew
poorer. And for twelve long months he persecuted me with his
attentions. He never left me alone. I sometimes think he was crazy in
his desire to marry me. He knew the whole of my wretched story, yet it
made no difference. He swore to me in his mildly deliberate way that I
should marry him. Perhaps I ought to have read the real character of
the man underlying his gentle manner, but, poor fool that I was, I
didn't. It was left to later events to open my eyes, events which were
to teach me that under the guise of friendship he hated Charles
Stanmore, because--because, in spite of everything, I still loved him.

"At the end of those twelve months my cup of bitterness was filled to
overflowing. You were born. You, with your deep-blue eyes and red-gold
hair. You, Charles Stanmore's child--but not mine."

Her voice died out, and Joan understood something of the passion in
this strange woman's soul. But the next moment a hard laugh jarred her
nerves. It was a laugh that had no mirth. Only was it an audible
expression designed to disguise real feelings.

"Oh, I had no grudge against you. You--you with your crumpled face and
big blue eyes. You could make no difference to my life as I saw it.
And yet you did." The woman's fingers suddenly clutched the crystal in
her lap with a force that left the thin tips of them white and
bloodless. "You did. A difference that in my maddest dreams I could
never have hoped for. You brought with you the curse of disaster from
which there was no escape for those to whom you belonged.

"I can see it all now," she went on exultingly. "I can see it as I saw
it then, every detail of it. Your father's gambling had brought him
down to something like want. A week before you were born his home was
sold up, and he and your mother took shelter in a tiny three-roomed
apartment for which they had no money to pay the rent. In desperation
he came to _me_--to _me_ for help. And I gave it him. The day before
you were born I gave him the money for the expenses of your birth and
to tide him over for three months. It was almost all I had in the
world." Again came that mirthless laugh. Then she hurried on. "But the
temptation was too much for Charles Stanmore, gambler that he was. He
suddenly found himself with money in his pocket and hope in his
foolish soul. There was a big wheat operation going on at the moment,
and every penny of the money, along with all the credit he could
procure, he plunged into it."

"And lost it all?" Joan whispered.

The other shook her head.

"No. The influence of your strange fate was at work. On the day that
you saw light Charles Stanmore was a comparatively rich man. And your
mother--was dead."

Joan breathed a deep sigh.

"Yes, wheat went up by leaps and bounds, and your father was delirious
with joy. He stood over you--I can see him now--and talked at you in
his foolish, extravagant way. 'You're the brightest, happiest,
luckiest little hoodlam that ever came into the world,' he cried. 'And
your name is "Golden," my little Golden Woman, for if ever there was
a golden kiddie in the world you are she. Gold? Why, you've showered
it on me. Luck? Why, I verily believe if you'd been around you'd
have brought luck to Jonah when he got mixed up with the whale's
internals.' And then, just as he finished, the bolt fell. The doctor
came in from the next room and took him aside. Your mother was dead."

A sob broke from the listening girl, a great sob of sympathy for the
kindly, weak, irresponsible father she had never known.

"Your father's disaster looked like my blessing. I had no regrets for
the woman," Mercy went on. "He was mine now by every right. The thief
had come by her reckoning. So I seized the opportunity that was thrust
in my way. Mine was the right to care for him and help him in his
trouble, nor have I shame in saying that I took it.

"But the curse of your life was working full and sure. But for your
existence I should never have taken that step. But for that step other
matters would never have occurred. When your father's--friend
discovered what I had done his fury knew no bounds. His insults were
unforgettable--at least by me. But I persisted. For a great hope was
at work within me that now your mother was gone eventually Charles
Stanmore might come back to his allegiance, and I might step into her
place. It was a foolish hope, but--I loved your father.

"Bah!" she went on impatiently. "It is no use raking amongst those
ashes. The details don't matter to you. Those things are dead. And
only is their effect alive to-day. My hopes were never to be
fulfilled. How should they be with the curse of your father's golden
girl involving us all in disaster. Let me cut the wretched history as
short as I can. At first money was plentiful enough, and luck in that
direction seemed to border on the marvelous. To give you an instance
your father--imbecile that he was--swore he would test it in your own
interests. He hunted round till he found the most hair-brained,
wildcat company ever floated for the purpose of robbing moneyed fools,
and invested ten thousand dollars in it as a life-dowry for you. It
was the joke of all his gambling friends. It was like pitching dollar
bills into the Hudson. And then in a month the miraculous happened.
After a struggle the company boomed, and you were left with a
competence for life. Yes, at first money was plentiful enough, but
your father never got over his shock of your mother's death. Sometimes
I used to think his brain was weakening. Anyway, he plunged into a
wild vortex of gambling. He drank heavily, and indulged himself in
excesses from which he had always kept clear up to that time. He took
to cards in a manner that frightened even me, used as I was to his
weaknesses. And in all these things his friend encouraged and indulged
him.

"The end was not far off. How could it be? Your father's luck waned
and his debauches increased. He grew nervous and worried. But he
persisted in his mode of life. Then, in a little while, I knew that he
was borrowing. He never touched your money. But he was borrowing
heavily. This man whom I had come to regard as his evil genius
undoubtedly lent him money--much money. Then came a particularly bad
time. For two days Charles Stanmore went about like a madman. What the
trouble was I never knew--except that it was a question of money. And
this terminated in the night of disaster toward which everything had
been driving."

Mercy Lascelles' voice dropped to a low, ominous pitch, and she paused
as though to draw all the threads of memory into one firm grasp. Her
look, too, changed. But it was a change quite unnoticed by Joan.

"It was one night in the apartment. I had gone to bed. They, your
father and his--friend, were in the parlor. They had quarreled during
the evening over some money affairs which I did not understand. Your
father was headstrong, as he always was, and the other, well, he
rarely raised his voice--he was one of those quiet men who disguise
their purposes under a calm atmosphere--as a rule. However, on this
occasion high words had passed, and I knew that stormy feelings were
underlying the calm which finally ensued. At last, when they sat down
to a heavy game of baccarat, I crept away to bed.

"I don't know how long I had been in bed when it happened. I know I
was asleep, for I wakened suddenly with a great sense of shock, and
sat up trying to realize what had happened. It took me some moments. I
know my mind ran over a dozen things before I decided what to do. I
remembered that we were alone in the place. The servants had been
dismissed more than a week before. There was only you, and your
father, and me in the place. Then I remembered that his friend was
there, and I had left them playing cards. Instantly I got out of bed.
I slipped on a dressing-gown and crept out into the passage. I moved
silently toward the door of the sitting-room. It was wide open. I had
left it shut. The gas was full on. I reached the door and cautiously
peered in. But there was no need for caution. Your father had fallen
forward in his chair, and lay with his head, face downward, upon the
table. He was dead and--the other had gone. I ran to the dead man's
side and raised him up. It was too late. All--all I had or cared for
in the world had been taken from me by the hand of the murderer."

"Murdered?" Joan whispered in horrified tones.

"Yes, murdered!" came the swift, vehement retort. "Shot--shot through
the heart, and in the stomach--and his murderer had fled. Oh, God,
shall I ever forget that moment!"

The woman fell back in her chair, her whole withered body shaking with
emotion. Then with an effort she pulled herself together and went on
more calmly--

"I hardly know what I did. All I remember is that I gave the alarm,
and presently had the police there. I told them all I could, and gave
the name and description of--the man who had done the deed. But it was
useless. He had gone--bolted. Nor was he ever seen or heard of again.
The curse had worked out. You, your father's golden girl, were left
orphaned to the care of the woman to whom your very existence was an
ineradicable wrong, and who, through your coming, had been robbed of
all that made life possible."

She raised her crystal and held it poised on the gathered finger-tips
of one hand. And when she spoke again her voice had gained strength
and tone.

"Since those days I have learnt to read the words that are written by
the hand of Fate. And here--here is the open book. It is all here. The
storm of disaster that brought you into the world will dog your
footsteps. You are cursed with the luck that leads to disaster.
Wherever you go men will bless your name, and, almost in the same
breath, their blessings shall turn to the direst curses. It is not I
who am speaking. My tongue utters the words, but the writing of Fate
has been set forth for me to interpret. Wherever you go, wherever you
be, you cannot escape the destiny set out for you. I tell you you are
a leper, a pariah, whom all men, for their own safeguarding, must
shun."

All through the final pronouncement Joan sat transfixed with horror. A
leper! A pariah! Nor, in the light of those things which to her own
knowledge had happened, could she doubt the hideous denunciation. She
had heard and understood that ill-luck could and did pursue its
victims. But this! Oh, it was too terrible--too cruel! For an instant
she thought of the doctor and his words of warning. But one glance at
the bowed figure, again intent upon her crystal, and the thought
passed. The story she had listened to was too real, too full of those
things which had driven her poor aunt to her present unyielding
attitude toward the world to be the ravings of an insane mind. And
suddenly panic gripped her, that panic which, in a moment of weakness,
so easily tends toward self-destruction.

"Is--is there no hope, auntie?" she asked helplessly.

Mercy Lascelles looked up from the crystal. She eyed her niece
steadily, as though to read all there was hidden behind the desperate
blue eyes.

Slowly she shook her head.

Again came that spasm of panic, and Joan seemed to hurl her whole
young strength into denial.

"But there is. There must be," she cried, with a fierceness that held
the other in something like astonishment. "There must be," she
reiterated desperately. "No God could be so cruel--so--so wicked.
What have I done to deserve this? The injustice is demoniacal. Far
better go and throw myself before a passing train than live to carry
such a pestilence with me wherever I go through life. If you can read
these things--read on. Read on and tell me, for I swear that I will
not live with this curse forever tied about my neck."

"You will live--you must live. It is written here." Mercy pointed at
the crystal. Then she laughed her cold, mirthless laugh. "There was
one power that served me, that helped me to save my reason through all
those early days. God knows how it may help you--for I can't see. I
loved your father with a passion nothing, no disaster could destroy. I
loved him so that I could crush every other feeling down, subservient
to my passion. Go you, child, and find such a love. Go you and find a
love so strong that no disaster can kill it. And maybe life may still
have some compensations for you, maybe it will lift the curse from
your suffering shoulders. It--it is the only thing in the world that
is stronger than disaster. It is the only thing in the world that is
stronger than--death."

Joan had no answer. She stared straight ahead of her, focusing some
trifling detail of the pattern on the wall paper. Her face was
stony--stony as the face of the woman who was watching her. The
moments passed rapidly. A minute passed, and neither spoke.

Then at last the girl abruptly rose from her seat. Almost mechanically
she moved over to a mirror, and, removing her hat, deftly patted her
beautiful hair till it assumed its wonted appearance. And quite
suddenly she turned about.

"I have nearly fifty thousand dollars, auntie. I am going to realize
that capital. I am going to leave this house--I am going to leave it
forever. I shall change my name, and cover up my tracks, for I intend
going where I am not known. I am going where men cannot figure in my
life, which I intend to begin all over again. The burden Fate has
imposed upon me is too great. I am going to run from it."

She laughed. And her laugh was as mirthless as her aunt's had been.




CHAPTER IV

TWO MEN OF THE WILDERNESS


The westering sun was drooping heavily toward its fiery couch. The
purple of evening was deepening from the east, meeting and blending
softly with the gold of the dying day. A great furnace of ruddy cloud
rose above the mountain-tops, lighting the eternal snows of the peaks
and ancient glaciers with a wealth of kaleidoscopic color. Viewed from
the plains below there might have been a great fire raging among the
hill-caps, where only snow and ice could provide the fuel.

The radiant colors of sunset held the quiet eyes of a solitary
horseman riding amidst the broken lands of the lesser foot-hills. He
was a big man, of powerful shoulders and stout limbs. He was a man of
fifty or thereabouts, yet his hair was snow white, a perfect mane that
reached low upon his neck, touching the soft collar of his cotton
shirt. His face was calm with something of the peace of the world
through which he was riding, something of the peace which comes to
those who have abandoned forever the strife of the busy life beyond.
It only needed the garb of the priest, and his appearance would have
matched perfectly his sobriquet, "the Padre."

But Moreton Kenyon was clad in the rough moleskin, the riding boots
and general make-up of the western life to which he belonged. Even he
carried the protecting firearms by which to administer the personal
laws of the wilderness. His whole appearance, the very horse under
him, a prairie-bred broncho of excellent blood, suggested a man who
knew the life amidst which he lived, and was more than capable of
surviving it.

Whatever his appearance, whatever his capacity for the rougher corners
of earth, Moreton Kenyon was a man of great kindliness, of great
sympathy, as the mission from which he was now returning might well
have testified. Those who knew him best held him in deep affection.
Those who knew him less withheld their judgment, but never failed to
treat him with a courtesy not usual amongst the derelicts of an
out-world camp.

Just now something of the smallness of human life, of human aims and
efforts, of human emotions, was occupying the busy brain behind his
reflective eyes. The scene before him, upon which he had so often
looked, never failed to remind him of the greatness of that which lay
beyond the ken of man. Somehow it exalted his thoughts to planes to
which no association with his kind could ever have exalted them. It
never failed to inspire him with a reverence for the infinity of power
which crowned the glory of creation, and reduced self to a humble
realization of its atomic place in the great scheme of the Creator.

His horse ambled easily over the ribbon-like trail, which seemed to
rise out of the eastern horizon from nowhere, and lose itself
somewhere ahead, amidst the dark masses of forest-crowned hills. The
journey was nearly over. Somewhere ahead lay the stable, which could
be reached at leisure in the cool of the evening, and neither master
nor beast seemed to feel the need for undue haste.

As the light slowly faded out and left the snow-white hill-crests drab
with the gray of twilight, the man's mind reverted to those things
which had sent him on his journey. Many doubts had assailed him by the
way, doubts which set him debating with himself, but which rarely made
him turn from a purpose his mind was once set upon. He knew that his
action involved more than his own personal welfare, and herein had
lain the source of his doubt. But he had clearly argued every point
with himself, and through it all had felt the rightness of his
purpose.

Then, too, he had had the support of that other with whom he was
concerned. And he smiled as he thought of the night when his decision
had been taken. Even now the picture remained in his mind of the eager
face of his youthful protégé as they discussed the matter. The younger
man had urged vehemently, protesting at every objection, that they two
had no right to live in comparative comfort with women and children
starving about them.

He remembered young Buck's eager eyes, large dark-brown eyes that
could light with sudden, almost volcanic heat, or smile their soft,
lazy smile of amusement at the quaintnesses of life about him. The
Padre understood the largeness of heart, the courage which urged him,
the singleness of purpose which was always his. Then, when their
decision had been taken, he remembered the abrupt falling back of the
man into the quiet, almost monosyllabic manner which usually belonged
to him.

Yes, Buck was a good lad.

The thought carried him back to days long gone by, to a time when a
lad of something less than eight years, clad in the stained and worn
garb of a prairie juvenile, his feet torn and bleeding, his large
brown eyes staring out of gaunt, hungry sockets, his thin, pinched,
sunburnt face drawn by the ravages of starvation, had cheerfully
hailed him from beneath the shelter of a trail-side bush.

That was nearly twenty years ago, but every detail of the meeting was
still fresh in his memory. His horse had shied at the sudden
challenge. He remembered he had thrashed the creature with his spurs.
And promptly had come the youthful protest.

"Say, you needn't to lick him, mister," the boy piped in his thin
treble. "Guess he'll stand if you talk to him."

Strangely enough the man had almost unconsciously obeyed the mandate.
And the memory of it made him smile now. Then had followed a dialogue,
which even now had power to stir every sympathy of his heart. He
started by casually questioning the starving apparition.

"Where you from, sonny?" he asked.

And with that unequivocal directness, which, after twenty years, still
remained with him, the boy flung out a thin arm in the direction of
the eastern horizon.

"Back ther', mister."

The natural sequence was to ask him whither he was bound, and his
answer came with a similar gesture with his other hand westward.

"Yonder."

"But--but who're your folks? Where are they?" the Padre had next
hazarded. And a world of desolation was contained in the lad's
half-tearful reply--

"Guess I ain't got none. Pop an' ma's dead. Our farm was burnt right
out. Y' see there was a prairie fire. It was at night, an' we was
abed. Pop got me out, an' went back for ma. I never see him agin. I
never see ma. An' ther' wa'an't no farm left. Guess they're sure
dead."

He fought the tears back manfully, in a way that set the Padre
marveling at his courage.

After a moment he continued his interrogation.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Buck," came the frank response.

"Buck--what?"

"Buck--jest plain, mister."

"But your father's name--what was that?"

"Pop."

"Yes, yes. That's what you called him. What did the folks call him?"

"Ther' wa'an't no folks. Jest pop, an' ma, an' me."

A great lump had risen in the man's throat as he looked down into
those honest, hungry eyes. And for a moment he was at a loss. But the
boy solved his dilemma in a way that proved the man in after-life.

"Say, you ain't a farmer?" he inquired, with a speculative glance over
his general outfit.

"Well, I am--in a small way," the Padre had replied, with a
half-smile.

The boy brightened at once.

"Then mebbe you can give me a job--I'm lookin' for a job."

The wonder of it all brought a great smile of sympathy to the
man's eyes now, as he thought of that little starving lad of eight
years old, homeless, wandering amidst the vastness of all that
world--looking for a "job." It was stupendous, and he had sat
marveling until the lad brought him back to the business in hand.

"Y' see I kin milk--an'--an' do chores around. Guess I can't plough
yet. Pop allus said I was too little. But mebbe I kin grow--later.
I--I don't want no wages--on'y food. Guess I'm kind o' hungry,
mister."

Nor, for a moment, could the man make any reply. The pathos of it all
held him in its grip. He leant over and groped in his saddle-bag for
the "hardtack" biscuits he always carried, and passed the lad a
handful.

He remembered how the boy snatched the rough food from his hands.
There was something almost animal in the way he crammed his mouth
full, and nearly choked himself in his efforts to appease the craving
of his small, empty stomach. In those moments the man's mind was made
up. He watched in silence while the biscuit vanished. Then he carried
out his purpose.

"You can have a job," he said. "I've only a small farm, but you can
come and help me with it."

"Do you mean that, mister?" the boy asked, almost incredulously.

Then, as the Padre had nodded, a sigh of thankfulness escaped the
young lips, which were still covered with the crumbs of his recent
meal.

"Say, I'm glad. Y' see I was gettin' tired. An' ther' didn't seem to
be no farms around--nor nuthin'. An' it's lonesome, too, at nights,
lyin' around."

The man's heart ached. He could stand no more of it.

"How long have you been sleeping--out?"

"Three nights, mister."

Suddenly the Padre reached out a hand.

"Here, catch hold, and jump."

The boy caught the strong hand, and was promptly swung up into the
saddle behind his benefactor. The next moment they were speeding back
over the trail to the lad's new home. Nor was the new-born hope solely
beating in the starving child's heart. The lonely farmer felt that
somehow the day was brighter, and the green earth more beautiful--for
that meeting.

Such had been the coming together of these two, and through all the
long years of weary toil since then they still remained together,
working shoulder to shoulder in a relationship that soon became
something like that of father and son. The Padre remained the
farmer--in a small way. But the boy--well, as had been prophesied by
his dead father, later on he grew big enough to plough the furrows of
life with a strong and sure hand.

The man's reflections were broken into abruptly. The time and distance
had passed more rapidly than he was aware of. The eager animal under
him raised its head, and, pricking its small ears and pulling heavily
on the reins, increased its pace to a gallop. Then it was that the
Padre became suddenly aware that the home stretch had been reached,
and before him lay a long, straight decline in the trail which split a
dense pine-wood bluff of considerable extent.

       *       *       *       *       *

A man was lounging astride of a fallen pine log. His lean shoulders
were propped against the parent stump. All about him were other stumps
left by those who had made the clearing in the woods. Beyond this the
shadowy deep of the woods ranged on every side, except where the red
sand of a trail broke the monotony of tone.

Near by two horses stood tethered together by a leading rein. One was
a saddle-horse, and the other was equipped with a well-loaded
pack-saddle. It was no mean burden of provisions. The carcass of a
large, black-tailed deer sprawled across the back of the saddle, while
on one side were secured three bags of flour, and on the other
several jack-rabbits were strung together. But the powerful beast
remained unconcernedly nibbling at the sparse green peeping here and
there through the carpet of rotting pine cones and needles which
covered the ground.

The man's eyes were half-closed, yet he was by no means drowsing. On
the contrary, his mind was essentially busy, and the occasional
puckering of his dark brows, and the tightening of his strong jaws,
suggested that his thoughts were not always pleasant.

After a while he sat up. But his movement was only the restlessness
caused by the worry of his thought. And the gaze he turned upon his
foraging horses was quite preoccupied.

A change, however, was not long in coming. Simultaneously both horses
threw up their heads, and one of them gave a sharp, comprehensive
snort. Instantly the man's large brown eyes lit, and a pleasant
expectancy shone in their depths. He was on his feet in an instant,
and his tall figure became alert and vibrant with the lithe activity
which was so wonderfully displayed in his whole poise. He, too, had
become aware of a disturbing element in the silent depths of the
woods.

He moved across to the trail, and, glancing down it, from out of the
silence reached him the distant, soft plod of hoofs in its heavy
covering of sand. His look of satisfaction deepened as he turned back
to his horses and tightened the cinchas of the saddles, and replaced
the bits in their mouths. Then he picked up the Winchester rifle
propped against a tree stump and turned again to the trail.

A moment later another horseman appeared from beyond the fringe of
pines and drew up with an exclamation.

"Why, Buck, I didn't reckon to find you around here!" he cried
cordially.

"No." The young man smiled quietly up into the horseman's face. The
welcome of his look was unmistakable. No words of his could have
expressed it better.

The Padre sprang from his saddle with the lightness of a man of half
his years, and his eyes rested on the pack-saddle on Buck's second
horse.

"For the--folks?" he inquired.

"Guess so. That's the last of the flour."

For a moment a shadow passed across the Padre's face. Then it as
suddenly brightened.

"How's things?" he demanded, in the stereotyped fashion of men who
greet when matters of importance must be discussed between them.

"So," responded Buck.

The Padre glanced quickly round, and his eyes fell on the log which
had provided the other with a seat.

"Guess there's no hurry. Let's sit," he said, indicating the log. "I'm
a bit saddle weary."

Buck nodded.

They left the horses to their own devices, and moved across to the
log.

"Quite a piece to Leeson Butte," observed Buck casually, as he dropped
upon the log beside his friend.

"It surely is," replied the Padre, taking the young man in with a
quick, sidelong glance.

Buck was good to look at, so strong, so calmly reliant. Every glance
of his big brown eyes suggested latent power. He was not strikingly
handsome, but the pronounced nose, the level, wide brows, the firm
mouth and clean-shaven chin, lifted him far out of the common. He was
clad simply. But his dress was perfectly suitable to the life of the
farmer-hunter which was his. His white moleskin trousers were tucked
into the tops of his Wellington boots, and a cartridge belt, from
which hung a revolver and holster, was slung about his waist. His
upper covering was a simple, gray flannel shirt, gaping wide open
across his sunburnt chest, and his modest-hued silk handkerchief tied
loosely about his neck.

"Leeson Butte's getting quite a city," Buck went on presently.

"That's so," replied the Padre, still bent upon his own thoughts.

After that it was quite a minute before either spoke. Yet there seemed
to be no awkwardness.

Finally it was the Padre who broached the matters that lay between
them.

"I got ten thousand dollars for it!" he said.

"The farm?" Buck's interrogation was purely mechanical. He knew well
enough that the other had purposely gone to Leeson Butte to sell the
farm on which they had both lived so long.

The Padre nodded.

"A fancy price," he said. "The lawyers closed quick. It was a woman
bought it. I didn't see her, though she was stopping at the hotel. I
figured on getting seven thousand five hundred dollars, and only asked
ten thousand dollars as a start. Guess the woman must have wanted it
bad. Maybe she's heard they're prospecting gold around. Well, anyway
she ought to get some luck with it, she's made it easy for us to help
the folks."

Buck's eyes were steadily fixed on the horses.

"It makes me feel bad seeing those fellers chasin' gold, and never a
color to show--an' all the while their womenfolk an' kiddies that thin
for food you can most see their shadows through 'em."

The eyes of the elder man brightened. The other's words had helped to
hearten him. He had felt keenly the parting with his farm after all
those years of labor and association. Yet, to a mind such as his, it
had been impossible to do otherwise. How could he stand by watching a
small community, such as he was surrounded with, however misguided in
their search for gold, painfully and doggedly starving before his very
eyes? For the men perhaps his sympathy might have been less keen, but
the poor, long-suffering women and the helpless children--the thought
was too painful. No, he and Buck had but their two selves to think of.
They had powerful hands with which to help themselves. Those others
were helpless--the women and children.

There was compensation in his sacrifice when he remembered the large
orders for edible stores he had placed with the merchants of Leeson
Butte before leaving that town.

"There's a heap of food coming along for them presently," he said
after a pause.

Buck nodded.

"I've been settin' that old fur fort to rights, way up in the hills
back ther'," he said, pointing vaguely behind them. "Guess we'd best
move up ther' now the farm's--sold. We'll need a few bits of furniture
from the farm. That right--now you've sold it?"

"Yes. I made that arrangement. She didn't seem to mind anything I
suggested. She must be a bully sort of woman. I'm sorry I didn't see
her. The lawyer says she comes from St. Ellis."

"Young?" suggested Buck.

The Padre shook his head.

"I wouldn't say so. A young woman with money wouldn't be likely to
hide herself in these hills."

"That's so. Guess it's the gold fetching her--the gold that isn't
here."

"Gold's a cursed thing," said the Padre reflectively.

"Yet none of 'em seem to shy at the curse." Buck smiled in his slow
way.

"No. Not without experiencing it." The Padre's eyes were still
serious. Then he went on, "We shan't farm any up there--at the fur
fort?"

Buck shook his head.

"It means clearing every inch of land we need. Guess we best hunt, as
we said. We'll make out with pelts. There's the whole mountains for
traps."

The other stared over at the horses, and his face was very grave.
After a while he turned directly to his companion, and his eyes were
mildly anxious.

"See here, Buck," he said, with what seemed unnecessary emphasis.
"I've thought a heap on the way back--home. It seems to me I'm not
acting square by you. And I've made up my mind." He paused. Buck did
not change his position, and his eyes were carefully avoiding those of
his companion. Then the Padre went on with a decision that somehow
lacked confidence. "You must take half the money, and--and get busy
your own way. We've done farming, so there's no reason for you to hang
around here. You're a man now, and you've your way to make in the
world. You see, when we had the farm I thought it was good for you.
It would be yours when I died, and then who knows, in time, how
valuable it might become? Now it's all different. You see the hills
are best for me." He smiled strainedly. "They've always been good
friends to me. But----"

"Yes, you don't fancy leavin' the hills." Buck's eyes wore a curious
expression. They were half-smiling, half-angry. But the other could
not see them. The Padre jumped eagerly at his words.

"Just so. I've known them so long now that there doesn't seem to be
any other world for me. Even Leeson Butte makes me feel--er--strange."

Buck nodded. Then he changed the subject.

"Say, we don't sleep at the farm to-night," he said. "The blankets are
up at the old fort. That's why I got around here. When's she comin'
along?"

"In two or three days." The Padre had no choice but to follow the
younger man's lead. "She's sending along a farm woman first. She's
going to run the place herself."

"Ther's no man comin'?" Buck half turned to his friend.

"I don't think so."

"They can't do it--hereabouts," Buck retorted quickly. "That farm
needs a man."

"Yes."

Buck rose abruptly and went over to the horses.

"Going?" inquired the Padre.

"I'll get along with the vittles, and hand 'em over to the boys. Guess
I'll git back to the fort in a few hours."

The Padre sat hesitating. He watched the movements of his companion
without observing them.

"Buck!"

The other paused as he was about to put his foot into the stirrup. He
glanced over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"About that money. There's five thousand of it yours."

"Not on your life, Padre!"

The elder man sighed as he stood up, and his look changed so that it
almost seemed as if a weight had been lifted from his mind. Their eyes
met as Buck swung himself into the saddle.

"Then we're going to the hills--together?" he said smilingly.

"Sure," responded Buck promptly. Then he added, "But we're goin' to
hunt--not farm."

His decisive manner left no room for doubt, and the Padre, moving over
to him, held out his hand. They gripped till the elder man winced.

"I'm glad I found you on the trail that time," he said, looking
squarely into the steady brown eyes. "I've always been glad, but--I'm
gladder still now."

"Me, too," said Buck, with a light laugh. "Guess I'd have hated to ha'
fed the coyotes."

Buck swung round to the trail, leading his packhorse, and the Padre
went back to his horse. Just as he was about to mount the younger
man's voice reached him again. He paused.

"Say, what's the woman's name?" Buck inquired.

"Eh?" The Padre looked startled. "The woman that bought the farm?"

"Yes--sure."

The elder man's face flushed painfully. It was a curious sight. He
looked as stupidly guilty as any schoolboy.

"I--I can't say. I never asked." He felt absurdly foolish and tried to
explain. "You see, I only dealt with the lawyer."

Buck shook his head, and smiled in his slow fashion.

"Sold the farm, an' don't know who to! Gee!"

It was good to hear his laugh as he rode away. The Padre watched him
till he was out of sight.




CHAPTER V

THE STEEPS OF LIFE


Buck leant over his horse's withers as the laboring creature clawed
tenaciously up the face of the rugged hill. His whole poise was that
of sympathetic straining. Nor were his eyes a whit less eager than
those of the faithful animal under him.

He was making the last twenty yards of the climb up Devil's Hill from
the side on which lay the new home adopted by the Padre and himself.
Hitherto this point of approach had been accepted as inaccessible for
a horseman, nor, until now, had Buck seen reason to dispute the
verdict. But, to-day, a sudden impulse had constrained him to make the
attempt, not from any vainglorious reason, or from the recklessness
which was so much a part of his nature, but simply that somewhere high
up on the great table-land at the summit of the hill he hoped to find
an answer to a riddle that was sorely puzzling him.

It had been a great struggle even on the lower and more gradual
slopes, for the basaltic rocks were barren, and broken, and slippery.
There was no gripping soil, or natural foothold. Just the weather-worn
rocks which offered no grip to Cæsar's metal-shod hoofs. Yet the
generous-hearted beast had floundered on up to the last stretch, where
the hill rose abruptly at a perilous angle.

It was a terrible scramble. As he looked above, at the point where the
sky-line was cut by the broken rocks, even the reckless heart of the
man quailed. Yet there was no turning back. To do so meant certain
disaster. No horse, however sure-footed, could ever hope to make the
descent by the way they had come. Buck had looked back just for one
brief second, but his eyes had instantly turned again for relief to
the heights above. Disaster lay behind him. To go on--well, if he
failed to reach the brow of the blackened hill it would mean disaster
anyway. And a smile of utter recklessness slowly lit his face.

So, with set jaws and straining body, he urged Cæsar to a last supreme
effort, and the great black creature responded gallantly. With head
low to the ground, his muscles standing out like ropes upon his
shoulders, his forelegs bent like grappling-hooks, his quarters tucked
beneath him, he put his giant heart into the work. Step by step, inch
by inch he gained, yawing and sliding, stumbling and floundering,
making way where all way seemed impossible. Slowly they crept up,
slowly, slowly they neared that coveted line. Buck was breathing hard.
Cæsar was blowing and had thrown his mouth agape, a sign that beyond
this he could make no further effort. Five yards--two yards. The
jagged line seemed to come down to meet them. At last, with a final
spring, the great horse trampled it under foot.

Buck heaved a sigh of relief.

"Gee!" he murmured. Then with the wide, black plain stretching before
him, its limits lost in a strange mist, he flung out of the saddle.

He stared about him curiously. Devil's Hill was in no way new to him.
Many a time he had visited its mysterious regions, but always had he
approached it from the prospecting camp, or his own farm, both of
which lay away on the northern side of it.

A wide plateau, nearly two miles in extent, stretched out before him.
It was as flat as the proverbial board, with just one isolated rock
towering upon its bosom. This was the chief object of interest now.
Away in the distance he beheld its ghostly outline, almost lost in the
ruddy atmosphere which, just now, seemed to envelop the whole of that
Western world.

It was a desolate scene. So desolate as to carry a strange sense of
depression to the heart of the horseman. There was not a tree in
sight--nor a single blade of grass. There was nothing but the funereal
black of basaltic rock, of which the hill seemed to be one solid mass.
Such was its desolation that even the horse seemed to be drooping at
the sight of it. It was always the same with Buck. There was an
influence about the place which always left him feeling rather
hopeless. He knew the old Indian stories of superstition. He knew the
awe in which the more ignorant among the white folk held this hill.
But these things left him unaffected. He only regarded it from his own
personal observations, which were not very enlivening.

Apart from the fact that not one atom of vegetation would grow either
upon the surface or slopes of Devil's Hill, no snows in winter had
ever been known to settle upon its uninviting bosom. Long before the
snow touched its surface, however low the temperature of the
atmosphere, however severe a blizzard might be raging--and the Montana
blizzards are notorious for their severity--the snow was turned to
water, and a deluge of rain hissed upon its surface.

Then, too, there was that mystery rock in the distance of the great
plateau. It was one of Nature's little enigmas with which she loves to
puzzle the mind of man. How came it there, shot up in the midst of
that wide, flat stretch of rock? It stood within a few hundred yards
of the eastern brink of the hill which, in its turn, was another
mystery. The eastern extremity was not a mere precipice, it was a vast
overhang which left Yellow Creek, upon whose banks the mining camps
were pitched, flowing beneath the roof of a giant tunnel supported by
a single side.

The rock on the plateau reared its misshapen head to the heavens at a
height of something over two hundred feet, and its great base formed a
vast cavern out of which, fanwise, spread a lake of steaming water,
which flowed on to the very brink of the hill where it overshadowed
the creek below. Thus it was, more than half the lake was held
suspended in mid-air, with no other support than the parent hill from
which its bed projected. It was an awesome freak of nature, calculated
to astonish even eyes that were accustomed to the sight of it.

But Buck was not thinking of these things now. He was looking at the
view. He was looking at the sky. He was looking from this great height
for an explanation of the curious, ruddy light in the sunless sky, the
teeming haze which weighted down the brain, and, with the slightest
movement, opened the pores of the skin and set the perspiration
streaming.

In all his years of the Montana hills he had never experienced such a
curious atmospheric condition. Less than an hour ago he had left the
Padre at the fur fort under a blazing summer sky, with the crisp
mountain air whipping in his nostrils. Then, quite of a sudden, had
come this change. There were no storm-clouds, and yet storm was in
every breath of the superheated air he took. There was no wind, nor
anything definite to alarm except this sudden blind heat and the
purple hue which seemed to have spread itself over the whole world.
Thus it was, as he neared the mysterious mountain, he had made up his
mind to its ascent in the hope of finding, there upon the unwholesome
plateau, the key to the atmospheric mystery.

But none seemed to be forthcoming, so, turning at last to the patient
Cæsar, he once more returned to the saddle and rode on to the barren
shores of Devil's Lake.

The lake was a desolate spot. The waters stretched out before him,
still, and silent, and black. There was not even a ripple upon its
steaming surface. Here the haze hung as it always hung, and the cavern
was belching forth deep mists, like the breathing of some prehistoric
monster. He glanced up at the birdless rock above, and into the broken
outlines of it he read the distorted features of some baleful, living
creature, or some savage idol. But there was no answer here to the
questions of his mind, any more than there had been on the rest of the
plateau, so he rode on along the edge of the water.

He reached the extreme end of the lake and paused again. He could go
no farther, for nothing but a rocky parapet, less than twenty feet
wide, barred the waters from tumbling headlong to the depths below.

After a moment Cæsar grew restless, his equine nerves seemed to be on
a jangle, and the steadying hand of his master had no effect. His eyes
were wistful and dilated, and he glanced distrustfully from side to
side, snorting loudly his evident alarm. Buck moved him away from his
proximity to the water, and turned to a critical survey of the remoter
crests of the Rocky Mountains.

The white snowcaps had gone. The purple of the lesser hills, usually
so delicate in their gradings, were lost in one monotony of dull red
light. The nearer distance was a mere world of ghostly shadows tinged
with the same threatening hue, and only the immediate neighborhood was
in any way clean cut and sharp to the eye. His brows drew together in
perplexity. Again, down there in the valley, beyond the brink of the
plateau, the dull red fog prevailed, and yet through it he could see
the dim picture of grass-land, of woods, of river, and the rising
slopes of more hills beyond.

No, the secret of the atmospheric phenomenon was not up here, and it
was useless to waste more time. So he moved off, much to his impatient
horse's relief, in a direction where he knew a gentle slope would lead
him from the hilltop to the neighborhood of the old farm and the ford
across Yellow Creek.

But even this way the road required negotiation, for the same bald
rocks and barrenness offered no sure foothold. However, Cæsar was used
to this path, and made no mistakes. His master gave him his head, and,
with eyes to the ground, the sure-footed beast moved along with almost
cat-like certainty. At last the soft soil of the valley was reached
again, and once more the deepening woods swallowed them up.

The end of Buck's journey lay across Yellow Creek, where a few
miserable hovels sheltered a small community of starving gold-seekers,
and thither he now hastened. On his way he had a distant view of the
old farm. He would have preferred to have avoided it, but that was
quite impossible. He had not yet got over the parting from it, which
had taken place the previous day. To him had fallen the lot of handing
it over to the farm-wife who had been sent on ahead from Leeson Butte
to prepare it for her employer's coming. And the full sense of his
loss was still upon him. Wrong as he knew himself to be, he resented
the newcomer's presence in his old home, and could not help regarding
her as something in the nature of a usurper.

The camp to which he was riding was a wretched enough place. Nor could
Nature, here in her most luxuriant mood, relieve it from its sordid
aspect. A few of the huts were sheltered at the fringe of the dark
woods, but most were set out upon the foreground of grass, which
fronted the little stream.

As Buck approached he could not help feeling that they were the most
deplorable huts ever built. They were like a number of inverted square
boxes, with roofs sloping from front to back. They were made out of
rough logs cut from the pine woods, roofed in with an ill-laid thatch
of mud and grass, supported on the lesser limbs cut from the trees
felled to supply the logs. How could such despairing hovels ever be
expected to shelter men marked out for success? There was disaster,
even tragedy, in every line of them. They were scarcely even shelters
from the elements. With their broken mud plaster, their doorless
entrances, their ill-laid thatch, they were surely little better than
sieves.

Then their surroundings of garbage, their remnants of coarse garments
hanging out upon adjacent bushes, their lack of every outward sign of
industrial prosperity. No, to Buck's sympathetic eyes, there was
tragedy written in every detail of the place.

Were not these people a small band of regular tramp gold-seekers? What
was their outlook? What was their perspective? The tramp gold-seeker
is a creature apart from the rest of the laboring world. He is not an
ordinary worker seeking livelihood in a regular return from his daily
effort. He works under the influence of a craze that is little less
than disease. He could never content himself with stereotyped
employment.

Besides, the rot of degradation soon seizes upon his moral nature. No
matter what his origin, what his upbringing, his education, his
pursuit of gold seems to have a deadening effect upon all his finer
instincts, and reduces him swiftly to little better than the original
animal. Civilization is forgotten, buried deep beneath a mire of
moral mud, accumulated in long years, and often in months only of
association with the derelicts and "hard cases" of the world. Rarely
enough, when Fortune's pendulum swings toward one more favored
individual, a flickering desire to return to gentler paths will
momentarily stir amidst the mire, but it seldom amounts to more than
something in the nature of a drunkard's dream in moments of sobriety,
and passes just as swiftly. The lustful animal appetite is too
powerful; it demands the sordid pleasures which the possession of gold
makes possible. Nor will it be satisfied with anything else. A tramp
gold-seeker is irreclaimable. His joy lies in his quest and the dreams
of fortune which are all too rarely fulfilled Every nerve centre is
drugged with his lust, and, like all decadents, he must fulfil the
destiny which his own original weakness has marked out for him.

Buck understood something of all this without reasoning it out in
his simple mind. He understood with a heart as reckless as their own,
but with a brain that had long since gathered strength from the
gentle wisdom of the man who was a sort of foster-father to him. He
did not pity. He felt he had no right to pity, but he had a deep
sympathy and love for the strongly human motives which stirred these
people. Success or failure, he saw them as men and women whose many
contradictory qualities made them intensely lovable and sometimes even
objects for respect, if for nothing else, at least for their very
hardihood and courage.

He rode up to the largest hut, which stood beyond the shadow of a
group of pine-trees, and dropped out of the saddle. With careful
forethought he loosened the cinchas of Cæsar's saddle and removed the
bit from his mouth. Then, with one last look at the purpling heavens,
he pushed aside the tattered blanket which hung across the doorway and
strode into the dimly-lit apartment.

It was a silent greeting that welcomed him. His own "Howdy" met with
no verbal response. But every eye of the men lying about on blankets
outspread upon the dusty floor was turned in his direction.

The scene was strange enough, but for Buck it had nothing new. The
gaunt faces and tattered clothing had long since ceased to drive him
to despairing protest. He knew, in their own phraseology, they were
"up against it"--the "it" in this case meaning the hideous spectre of
starvation. He glanced over the faces and counted seven of them. He
knew them all. But, drawing forward an upturned soap-box, he sat down
and addressed himself to Curly Saunders, who happened to be lying on
his elbow nearest the door.

"Say, I just came along to give you word that vittles are on the way
from Leeson Butte," he said, as though the fact was of no serious
importance.

Curly, a short, thick-set man of enormous strength and round, youngish
face, eased himself into a half-sitting position. But before he could
answer another man, with iron-gray hair, sat up alertly and eyed their
visitor without much friendliness.

"More o' the Padre's charity?" he said, in a manner that suggested
resentment at the benefit he had no intention of refusing. Curiously
enough, too, his careless method of expression in no way disguised the
natural refinement of his voice.

Buck shook his head, and his eyes were cold.

"Don't guess there's need of charity among friends, Beasley."

Beasley Melford laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh.

"Guess it makes him feel good dopin' out stuff to us same as if we was
bums," he said harshly.

"Shut up!" cried a voice from a remote corner. Buck looked over and
saw a lean, dark man hugging his knees and smoking a well-burnt briar
pipe. The same voice went on: "Guess you'd sicken most anybody,
Beasley. You got a mean mind. Guess the Padre's a hell of a bully
feller."

"He sure is," said Montana Ike, lolling over on to his side and
pushing his canvas kit-bag into a more comfortable position. "You was
sayin' there was vittles comin' along, Buck? Guess ther' ain't no
'chawin'' now?"

"Tobacco, sure," responded Buck with a smile.

One by one the men sat up on their frowsy blankets. The thought of
provisions seemed to have roused them from their lethargy. Buck's eyes
wandered over the faces peering at him out of the murky shadows. The
squalor of the hut was painful, and, with the knowledge that help was
at hand, the sight struck him even more forcibly.

"Quit work?" he asked a moment later, in his abrupt fashion.

Somebody laughed.

Buck looked round for an answer. And again his eyes caught the steely,
ironical gleam in the man Beasley's.

"The last o' Slaney's kids 'passed in' last night. Guess we're goin'
to bury her."

Buck nodded. He had no words. But he carefully avoided looking in the
direction of Slaney Dick, who sat in a far corner smoking his pipe and
hugging his great knees.

Beasley went on in the same half-mocking tone--

"Guess it's up to me to read the service over her."

"You!"

Buck could not help the ejaculation. Beasley Melford was an unfrocked
Churchman. Nor was it known the reason of his dismissal from his
calling. All Buck knew was that Beasley was a man of particularly low
morals and detestable nature. The thought that he was to administer
the last rites of the Church over the dead body of a pure and innocent
infant set his every feeling in active protest. He turned to Slaney.

"The Padre buried the others?" he said questioningly.

It was Dick's partner, Abe Allinson, who took it upon himself to
answer.

"Y' see the Padre's done a heap. Slaney's missis didn't guess we'd
orter worrit him. That's how she said."

Buck suddenly swung round on Beasley.

"Fix it for to-morrow, an' the Padre'll be right along."

He looked the ex-Churchman squarely in the eye. He was not making a
request. His words were an emphatic refusal to allow the other the
office. It was Slaney who answered him.

"I'm glad," he said. Then, as an afterthought, "an' the missis'll be
glad, too."

After that nobody seemed inclined to break the silence. Nor was it
until somebody hawked and spat that the spell was broken.

"We bin holdin' a meetin'," said Curly Saunders heavily. "Y' see, it
ain't no good."

Buck nodded at the doorway.

"You mean----?"

"The prospect," Beasley broke in and laughed. "Say, we sure been
suckers stayin' around so long. Ther' ain't no gold within a hundred
miles of us. We're just lyin' rottin' around like--stinkin' sheep."

Curly nodded.

"Sure. That's why we held a meeting. We're goin' to up stakes an'
git."

"Where to?"

Buck's quick inquiry met with a significant silence, which Montana Ike
finally broke.

"See here," he cried, with sudden force. "What's the use in astin'
fool questions? Ther' ain't no gold, ther' ain't nuthin'. We got color
fer scratchin' when we first gathered around like skippin' lambs, but
ther's nuthin' under the surface, an' the surface is played right
out. I tell you it's a cursed hole. Jest look around. Look at yonder
Devil's Hill. Wher'd you ever see the like? That's it. Devil's Hill.
Say, it's a devil's region, an' everything to it belongs to the devil.
Ther' ain't nuthin' fer us--nuthin', but to die of starvin'. Ah,
psha'! It's a lousy world. Gawd, when I think o' the wimminfolk it
makes my liver heave. Say, some of them pore kiddies ain't had milk
fer weeks, an' we only ke'p 'em alive thro' youse two fellers. Say,"
he went on, in a sudden burst of passion, "we got a right, same as
other folk, to live, an' our kids has, an' our wimmin too. Mebbe we
ain't same as other folks, them folks with their kerridges an' things
in cities, mebbe our kiddies ain't got no names by the Chu'ch, an' our
wimmin ain't no Chu'ch writin' fer sharin' our blankets, but we got a
right to live, cos we're made to live. An' by Gee! I'm goin' to live!
I tell youse folk right here, ther's cattle, an' ther's horses, an'
ther's grain in this dogone land, an' I'm goin' to git what I need of
'em ef I'm gettin' it at the end of a gun! That's me, fellers, an'
them as has the notion had best foller my trail."

The hungry eyes of the man shone in the dusk of the room. The harsh
lines of his weak face were desperate. Every word he said he meant,
and his whole protest was the just complaint of a man willing enough
to accept the battle as it came, but determined to save life itself by
any means to his hand.

It was Beasley who caught at the suggestion.

"You've grit, Ike, an' guess I'm with you at any game like that."

Buck waited for the others. He had no wish to persuade them to any
definite course. He had come there with definite instructions from the
Padre, and in his own time he would carry them out.

A youngster, who had hitherto taken no part in the talk, suddenly
lifted a pair of heavy eyes from the torn pages of a five-cent novel.

"Wal!" he cried abruptly. "Wot's the use o' gassin'? Let's light right
out. That's how we sed 'fore you come along, Buck." He paused, and a
sly grin slowly spread over his features. Then, lowering his voice to
a persuasive note, he went on, "Here, fellers, mebbe ther' ain't
more'n cents among us. Wal, I'd sure say we best pool 'em, an' I'll
set right out over to Bay Creek an' git whisky. I'll make it in four
hours. Then we'll hev jest one hell of a time to-night, an' up stakes
in the morning, fer--fer any old place out o' here. How's that?"

"Guess our few cents don't matter, anyways," agreed Curly, his dull
eyes brightening. "I'd say the Kid's right. I ain't lapped a sup o'
rye in months."

"It ain't bad fer Soapy," agreed Beasley. "Wot say, boys?"

He glanced round for approval and found it in every eye except
Slaney's. The bereaved father seemed utterly indifferent to anything
except his own thoughts, which were of the little waxen face he had
watched grow paler and paler in his arms only yesterday morning, until
he had laid the poor little dead body in his weeping woman's lap.

Buck felt the time had come for him to interpose. He turned on Beasley
with unmistakable coldness.

"Guess the Padre got the rest of his farm money yesterday--when the
woman came along," he said. "An' the vittles he ordered are on the
trail. I'd say you don't need to light out--yet."

Beasley laughed offensively.

"Still on the charity racket?" he sneered.

Buck's eyes lit with sudden anger.

"You don't need to touch the vittles," he cried. "You haven't any
woman, and no kiddies. Guess there's nothing to keep you from getting
right out."

He eyed the man steadily, and then turned slowly to the others.

"Here, boys, the Padre says the food and canned truck'll be along
to-morrow morning. And you can divide it between you accordin' to your
needs. If you want to get out it'll help you on the road. And he'll
hand each man a fifty-dollar bill, which'll make things easier. If you
want to stop around, and give the hill another chance, why the fifty
each will make a grub stake."

The proposition was received in absolute silence. Even Beasley had no
sneering comment. The Kid's eyes were widely watching Buck's dark
face. Slaney had removed his pipe, and, for the moment, his own
troubles were forgotten under a sudden thrill of hope. Curly Saunders
sat up as though about to speak, but no words came. Abe Allinson,
Ike, and Blue Grass Pete contented themselves with staring their
astonishment at the Padre's munificence. Finally Slaney hawked and
spat.

"Seems to me," he said, in his quiet, drawling voice, "the Padre sold
his farm to help us out."

"By Gee! that's so," exclaimed Curly, thumping a fist into the palm of
his other hand.

The brightening eyes lit with hope. The whole atmosphere of the place
seemed to have lost something of its depression.

Ike shook his head.

"I'm gettin' out. But say, the Padre's a bully feller."

Abe nodded.

"Ike's right. Slaney an' me's gettin' out, too. Devil's Hill's a
cursed blank."

"Me, too," broke in the Kid. "But say, wot about poolin' our cents for
whisky?" he went on, his young mind still intent upon the contemplated
orgie.

It was Buck who helped the wavering men to their decision. He
understood them. He understood their needs. The ethics of the
proposition did not trouble him. These men had reached a point where
they needed a support such as only the fiery spirits their stomachs
craved could give them. The Padre's help would come afterward. At the
moment, after the long weeks of disappointment, they needed something
to lift them, even if it was only momentarily. He reached round to his
hip-pocket and pulled out two single-dollar bills and laid them on the
dusty ground in front of him.

"Ante up, boys," he said cheerfully. "Empty your dips. The Kid's
right. An' to-morrow you can sure choose what you're going to do."
Then he turned to the Kid. "My plug Cæsar's outside. Guess you best
take him. He'll make the journey in two hours. An' you'll need to
bustle him some, because ther's a kind o' storm gettin' around right
smart. Eh?" He turned and glanced sharply at Beasley. "You got a
dollar?"

"It's fer whisky," leered the ex-Churchman, as he laid the dirty paper
on the top of Buck's.

In two minutes the pooling was completed and the Kid prepared to set
out. Eight dollars was all the meeting could muster--eight dollars
collected in small silver, which represented every cent these men
possessed in the world. Buck knew this. At least he could answer for
everybody except perhaps Beasley Melford. That wily individual he
believed was capable of anything. He was sure that he was capable of
accepting anything from anybody, while yet being in a position to more
than help himself.

Buck went outside to see the Kid off, and some of the men had gathered
in the doorway. They watched the boy swing himself into the saddle,
and the desperate shadows had lightened on their hungry faces. The
buoyancy of their irresponsible natures was reasserting itself. That
bridge, which the Padre's promise had erected between their despair
and the realms of hope, however slight its structure, was sufficient
to lift them once more to the lighter mood so natural to them.

So their tongues were loosened, and they offered their messenger
the jest from which they could seldom long refrain, the coarse,
deep-throated jest which sprang from sheer animal spirits rather than
any subtlety of wit. They forgot for the time that until Buck's coming
they had contemplated the burial of a comrade's only remaining
offspring. They forgot that the grieving father was still within the
hut, his great jaws clenched upon the mouthpiece of his pipe, his
hollow eyes still gazing straight in front of him. That was their way.
There was a slight ray of hope for them, a brief respite. There was
the thought, too, of eight dollars' worth of whisky, a just portion of
which was soon to be in each stomach.

But Buck was not listening to them. He had almost forgotten the
messenger riding away on his treasured horse, so occupied was he by
the further change that had occurred in the look of the sky and in the
atmosphere of the valley. Presently he lifted one strong, brown hand
to his forehead and wiped the beads of perspiration from it.

"Phew! What heat! Here," he cried, pointing at Devil's Hill, away to
his left, "what d'you make of that?"

For a moment all eyes followed the direction of his outstretched arm.
And slowly there grew in them a look of awe such as rarely found place
in their feelings.

The crown of the hill, the whole of the vast, black plateau was
enveloped in a dense gray fog. Above that hung a mighty, thunderous
pall of purple storm-cloud. Back, away into the mountains in billowy
rolls it extended, until the whole distance was lost in a blackness as
of night.

It was Curly Saunders who broke the awed silence.

"Jumpin' Mackinaw!" he cried. Then he looked after their departing
messenger. "Say, that feller oughtn't to've gone to Bay Creek. He'll
never make it."

Beasley, whose feelings were less susceptible, and whose mind was set
on the promised orgie, sneered at the other's tone.

"Skeered some, ain't you? Tcha'! It's jest wind----"

But he never completed his sentence. At that instant the whole of the
heavens seemed to split and gape open. A shaft of light, extending
from horizon to horizon, paralyzed their vision. It was accompanied by
a crash of thunder that set their ear-drums well-nigh bursting. Both
lightning and the thunder lasted for what seemed interminable minutes
and left their senses dazed, and the earth rocking beneath their
feet. Again came the blinding light, and again the thunder crashed.
Then, in a moment, panic had set in, and the tattered blanket had
fallen behind the last man as a rush was made for the doubtful shelter
of the hut.




CHAPTER VI

OUT OF THE STORM


The challenge had gone forth. In those two vivid shafts of light,
in the deafening peals of thunder the war of elements had been
proclaimed, and these men of the wilderness understood something of
their danger.

Thereafter, for some moments, a threatening silence reigned
everywhere. The birds, the insects even, all life seemed to crouch,
hushed and expectant. The valley might have been the valley of death,
so still, so dark, so threatening was the superheated atmosphere that
hung over it.

The men within the shelter of the hut waited, and only Buck and Blue
Grass Pete stood near the blanket-covered doorway. There was little
enough confidence in the inefficient shelter of the hut, but it was
their natural retreat and so they accepted it. Then the moment of
tension passed, and Buck, glancing swiftly round the hut, seized a
hammer and hastily secured the covering of the doorway.

"She'll be on us right smart," he observed to Pete, who assisted him
while the others looked on.

"Yes," replied Pete resignedly. "Guess we're goin' to git it good."
There was not only resignation, but indifference in his tone.

Buck glanced up at the roof, and the rest followed his gaze curiously.
He shook his head.

"It's worse than----"

But he did not finish what he had to say. A strange hissing broke from
the distance, like the sound of rushing water, and, with each passing
moment, it grew in volume until, out of the heart of it, a
deep-throated roar boomed over the hilltops.

It was a great wind-storm leaping down from the everlasting snows of
the mountains, tearing its way through the lean branches of the
forest-tops, the wide-gaping valleys, and rushing up the hillsides
with a violence that tore limbs from the parent trunks and rooted out
trees that had withstood a thousand storms. It was the deep breath of
the storm fiend launched upon a defenseless earth, carrying wreck and
destruction whithersoever its blast was turned.

"By Jing'!"

It was Montana Ike who voiced the awe crowding every heart.

But his exclamation brought the practical mind of Buck to
consideration of their needs. His eyes turned again to the roof, and
Pete voiced his thoughts.

"She'll carry away like--like a kite when it hits us," he declared.
Several more pairs of eyes were turned helplessly upward. Suddenly
Buck swung round upon the doorway.

"Here she comes," he cried. "Holy----!"

With a rush and a deafening roar the wind hit the building and set it
rocking. Buck and Pete flung themselves with arms outspread against
the ballooning blanket, and it held. Again the wind crashed against
the sides of the hut. Some one flung himself to the two men's
assistance. Then came a ripping and tearing, and the thatch hissed
away on the breath of the storm like straw caught in a whirlwind. The
men gazed stupidly up at the blackened heavens, which were now like
night. There was nothing to be done. What could they do? They were
helpless. And not even a voice could make itself heard in the howling
of the wind as it shrieked about the angles of the building.

Then came the rain. It fell in great drops whose sheer weight and size
carried them, at the moment of impact, through the ragged shirts to
the warm flesh beneath. In a second, it seemed, a waterspout was upon
them and was pouring its tide into the roofless hut.

With the deluge, the elemental battle began in desperate earnest. Peal
after peal of thunder crashed directly overhead, and with it came such
a display of heavenly pyrotechnics that in their wildest moments these
men had never dreamed of. Their eyes were blinded, and their ear-drums
were bursting with the incessant hammering of the thunder.

But the wind had passed on, shrieking and tearing its way into the dim
distance until its voice was utterly drowned in the sterner
detonations of the battle.

Drenched to the skin, knee-deep in water, the men stood herded
together like sheep in a pen. Their blankets were awash and floated
about, tangling their legs in the miniature lake that could not find
rapid enough exit through the doorway. They could only stand there
stupidly. To go outside was to find no other shelter, and only the
more openly to expose themselves to the savage forks of lightning
playing across the heavens in such blinding streaks. Nor could they
help the women even if they needed help in the other huts. The roofs
and doors would or would not hold, and, in the latter case, until the
force of the storm abated no help could serve them.

The storm showed no signs of abatement. The black sky was the sky of
an unlit night. There was no lightening in any direction, and the
blinding flashes amidst the din of thunder only helped to further
intensify the pitchy vault. The splitting of trees amidst the chaos
reached the straining ears, and it was plain that every flash of light
was finding a billet for its forked tongue in the adjacent forests.

The time dragged on. How long or how short was the period of the storm
none of the men wondered or cared. The rapidity of the thunder
crashes, the swift successions of lightning entirely held them, and,
strong as they were, these things kept their nerves jumping.

Once in the midst of it all a man suddenly cried out. His cry came
with a more than usually brilliant flash of purplish, steel-blue fire.
The intensity of it carried pain to the now supersensitive nerves of
his vision, and he turned and flung himself with his face buried upon
his arm against the dripping wall. It was Beasley Melford. He stood
there cowering, a dreadful terror shaking his every nerve.

The others turned stupidly in his direction, but none had thought for
his suffering. Each was hard pressed to face the terror of it all
himself; each was wondering at what moment his own limits would be
reached. Buck alone showed no sign of the nervous tension. His deep
brown eyes watched the group about him, automatically blinking with
every flash of light, and with only the slightest possible start as
the thunder crashed into his ears.

He was thinking, too--thinking hard of many things. The Padre was out
in the hills with gun and traps. Would he have anticipated the swift
rising storm and regained the shelter of the stout old fort? With the
boom of falling trees going on about them, with the fiery crackle of
the blazing light as it hit the topmost branches of the adjacent
forest, he wondered and hoped, and feared for the old man in the same
thought.

Then there were those others. The women and children in the other
huts. How were they faring? But he remembered that the married
quarters were better built than this hut had been, and he drew comfort
from the thought. And what of the Kid, and of Cæsar?

More than two hours passed before any change came. The deafening peals
of thunder seemed as though they would never lessen in tone. The
night-like heavens seemed as though no sun could ever hope to
penetrate them again. And the streaming rain--was there ever such a
deluge since the old Biblical days!

Buck understood now the nature of the storm. Probably twenty years
would elapse before another cloudburst would occur again, and the
thought set him speculating upon the effect this might have upon the
lake on Devil's Hill. What might not happen? And then the creek below!
He remembered that these huts of the gold-seekers were on the
low-lying banks of the creek. What if it flooded? He stirred uneasily,
and, turning to the doorway, opened a loose fold in the blanket and
peered out.

He saw the creek in a sudden blaze of light, and in that momentary
brilliance he saw that the rushing water was rising rapidly. A grave
feeling of uneasiness stirred him and he turned back to his
companions. For once in his life he felt utterly helpless.

Another hour passed. The atmospheric heat had passed, and the men
stood shivering in the water. The chill was biting into their very
bones, but still there was no respite. Twice more Buck turned anxious
eyes upon the creek. And each time his alarm increased as the blinding
light revealed the rapid rise of the water. He dared not voice his
fears yet. He understood the condition of mind prevailing. To warn his
companions would be to set them rushing to get their womenfolk out of
their shelters, and this must not be thought of--yet.

He had just arrived at the conclusion that he would abide by his next
observation when the long-looked-for change began. It came as suddenly
as the rising of the storm itself. It came in a rapid lightening of
the sky overhead. From black to gray it turned almost in a second. A
dull, ominous, rolling world of gray rain-clouds. The thunder died
away and the blinding flashes came no more. It was as though the storm
had been governed by one all-powerful will and the word to "cease
fire" had been hurled across the heavens as the last discharge of
monstrous artillery had been fired. Then, with the lifting of the
darkness, the rain slackened too, and the deluge eased.

Buck sighed his relief, and Curly Saunders, from near by, audibly
expressed his.

"She's lettin' up," he growled.

Pete caught at his words.

"It sure is."

Buck was about to speak, but his lips remained open and he stood
listening.

What was that?

Something was moving beyond the doorway. Something touched the
blanket as though seeking support. Then it slid down, its movement
visible in the bulging of the drenched cloth. This was followed by a
heavy, squelching flop. The body, whatever it was, had fallen into the
streaming water pouring from within the hut. Then came a long-drawn,
piteous moan that held the men gazing silently and stupidly at the
sagging blanket.

It was while they stood thus that the rain ceased altogether, and the
great storm-clouds broke and began to disperse, and a watery sunbeam
lit the wreck of the passing storm. As its light poured in upon the
wretched interior a second moan, short and weak but distinctly
audible, reached the astounded ears of the men. There was a moment's
pause as it died out, then Buck's arm shot out, and, seizing the edge
of the blanket, he ripped it from its fastenings and let it fall to
the ground. Instantly every neck was set craning, and every eye was
alight with wonder, for there, half-resting upon the sill of the
doorway, and half-lying upon the ground with the water streaming
everywhere about her, lay the huddled, half-drowned figure of a young
woman.

"It's--it's a--woman," cried Pete stupidly, unable to contain his
astonishment longer.

"It sure is," murmured Curly, with equal brightness.

But while they gave the company the benefit of their keenness of
perception Buck had dropped upon his knees and was bending over the
wretched victim of the storm. He raised her, and drew her tenderly
into his arms.

"'Tain't one of ours," announced Ike over his shoulder.

"No." Buck's monosyllable displayed no great interest in his remark.

Amidst a dead silence Buck suddenly straightened up, with the
dripping figure clasped tightly in his strong arms. A great pity shone
in his eyes as he gazed down into the fair young face. It was the
first time in all his life he had held a woman in his arms, and the
sensation of it made him forget those others about him.

Suddenly Ike's voice aroused him.

"By Gar!" he cried. "Jest look at that red ha'r. Say, easy, boys,
we're treadin' it around in the mud."

It was true. The great masses of the girl's red-gold hair had fallen
loose and were trailing in the water as Buck held her. It reached from
the man's shoulder, where her head was pillowed, and the heavy-footed
men were trampling the ends of it into the mud. Ike stooped and
rescued the sodden mass, and laid it gently across Buck's shoulders.

For a moment the sun shone down upon the wondering group. The clouds
had broken completely, and were scattering in every direction as
though eager to escape observation after their recent shameful
display. No one seemed to think of moving out into the rapidly warming
open. They were content to gather about Buck's tall figure and gape
down at the beautiful face of the girl lying in his arms.

It was Beasley Melford who first became practical.

"She's alive, anyway," he said. "Sort o' stunned. Mebbe it's the
lightnin'."

Pete turned, a withering glance upon his foxy face.

"Lightnin' nuthin'," he cried scornfully. "If she'd bin hit she'd ha'
bin black an' dead. Why, she--she ain't even brown. She's white as
white." His voice became softer, and he was no longer addressing the
ex-Churchman. "Did y' ever see sech skin--so soft an' white? An' that
ha'r, my word! I'd gamble a dollar her eyes is blue--ef she'd jest
open 'em."

He reached out a great dirty hand to touch the beautiful whiteness of
the girl's throat with a caressing movement, but instantly Buck's
voice, sharp and commanding, stayed his action.

"Quit that!" he cried. "Ke'p your durned hands to yourself," he added,
with a strange hoarseness.

Pete's eyes lit angrily.

"Eh? What's amiss?" he demanded. "Guess I ain't no disease."

Beasley chuckled across at him, and the sound of his mirth infuriated
Buck. He understood the laugh and the meaning underlying it.

"Buck turned wet nurse," cried the ex-Churchman, as he beheld the
sudden flush on the youngster's face.

"You can ke'p your durned talk," Buck cried. "You Beasley--and the lot
of you," he went on recklessly. "She's no ord'nary gal; she's--she's a
lady."

Curly and Ike nodded agreement.

But Beasley, whatever his fears of the storm, understood the men of
his world. Nor had he any fear of them, and Buck's threat only had the
effect of rousing the worst side of his nature, at all times very near
the surface.

"Lady? Psha'! Write her down a woman, they're all the same, only
dressed different. Seems to me it's better they're all just women. An'
Pete's good enough for any woman, eh, Pete? She's just a nice, dandy
bit o' soft flesh an' blood, eh, Pete? Guess you like them sort, eh,
Pete?"

The man's laugh was a hideous thing to listen to, but Pete was not
listening. Buck heard, and his dark face went ghastly pale, even
though his eyes were fixed on the beautiful face with its closed,
heavily-lashed eyes. Pete's attention was held by the delicate
contours of her perfect figure and the gaping, bedraggled white
shirt-waist, where the soft flesh of her fair bosom showed through,
and the delicate lace and ribbons of her undergarments were left in
full view.

No one offered Beasley encouragement and his laugh fell flat. And when
Curly spoke it was to express something of the general thought.

"Wonder how she came here?" he said thoughtfully.

"Seems as though the storm had kind o' dumped her down," Abe Allinson
admitted.

Again Beasley chuckled.

"Say, was ther' ever such a miracle o' foolishness as you fellers? You
make me laff--or tired, or something. Wher'd she come from? Ain't the
Padre sold his farm?" he demanded, turning on Buck. "Ain't he sold it
to a woman? An' ain't he expectin' her along?"

Buck withdrew his eyes from the beautiful face, and looked up in
answer to the challenge.

"Why, yes," he said, his look suddenly hardening as he confronted
Beasley's face. "I had forgotten. This must surely be Miss--Miss Rest.
That's the name Mrs. Ransford, the old woman at the farm, said. Rest."
He repeated the name as though it were pleasant to his ears.

"Course," cried Curly cheerfully. "That's who it is--sure."

"Rest, eh? Miss--Rest," murmured the preoccupied Pete. Then he added,
half to himself, "My, but she's a dandy! Ain't--ain't she a pictur',
ain't she----?"

Buck suddenly pushed him aside, and his action was probably rougher
than he knew. But for some reason he did not care. For some reason he
had no thought for any one but the fair creature lying in his arms.
His head was throbbing with a strange excitement, and he moved swiftly
toward the door, anxious to leave the inquisitive eyes of his
companions behind him.

As he reached the door Beasley's hateful tones arrested him.

"Say, you ain't takin' that pore thing up to the fort, are you?" he
jeered.

Buck swung about with the swiftness of a panther. His eyes were ablaze
with a cold fire.

"You rotten outlaw parson!" he cried.

He waited for the insult to drive home. Then when he saw the fury in
the other's face, a fury he intended to stir, he went on--

"Another insinuation like that an' I'll shoot you like the dog you
are," he cried, and without waiting for an answer he turned to the
others. "Say, fellers," he went on, "I'm takin' this gal wher' she
belongs--down to the farm. I'm goin' to hand her over to the old woman
there. An' if I hear another filthy suggestion from this durned skunk
Beasley, what I said goes. It's not a threat. It's a promise, sure,
an' I don't ever forgit my promises."

Beasley's face was livid, and he drew a sharp breath.

"I don't know 'bout promises," he said fiercely. "But you won't find
me fergittin' much either."

Buck turned to the door again and threw his retort over his shoulder.

"Then you sure won't forgit I've told you what you are."

"I sure won't."

Nor did Buck fail to appreciate the venom the other flung into his
words. But he was reckless--always reckless. And he hurried through
the doorway and strode off with his still unconscious burden.




CHAPTER VII

A SIMPLE MANHOOD


All thought of Beasley Melford quickly became lost in feelings of a
deeper and stronger nature as Buck passed out into the open. His was
not a nature to dwell unnecessarily upon the clashings of every-day
life. Such pinpricks were generally superficial, to be brushed aside
and treated without undue consideration until such time as some
resulting fester might gather and drastic action become necessary. The
fester had not yet gathered, therefore he set his quarrel aside for
the time when he could give it his undivided attention.

As he strode away the world seemed very wide to Buck. So wide, indeed,
that he had no idea of its limits, nor any desire to seek them. He
preferred that his eyes should dwell only upon those things which
presented themselves before a plain, wholesome vision. He had no
desire to peer into the tainted recesses of any other life than that
which he had always known. And in his outlook was to be witnessed the
careful guidance of his friend, the Padre. Nor was his capacity
stunted thereby, nor his strong manhood. On the contrary, it left him
with a great reserve of power to fight his little battle of the
wilderness.

Yet surely such a nature as his should have been dangerously open to
disaster. The guilelessness resulting from such a simplicity of life
ought surely to have fitted him for a headlong rush into the pitfalls
which are ever awaiting the unwary. This might have been so in a man
of less strength, less reckless purpose. Therein lay his greatest
safeguard. His was the strength, the courage, the resource of a mind
trained in the hard school of the battle for existence in the
wilderness, where, without subtlety, without fear, he walked over
whatever path life offered him, ready to meet every obstruction, every
disaster, with invincible courage.

It was through this very attitude that his threat against Beasley
Melford was not to be treated lightly. His comrades understood it.
Beasley himself knew it. Buck had assured him that he would shoot him
down like a dog if he offended against the unwritten laws of
instinctive chivalry as he understood them, and he would do it without
any compunction or fear of consequences.

A woman's fame to him was something too sacred to be lightly treated,
something quite above the mere consideration of life and death. The
latter was an ethical proposition which afforded him, where a high
principle was in the balance against it, no qualms whatsoever. It was
the inevitable result of his harsh training in the life that was his.
The hot, rich blood of strong manhood ran in his veins, but it was the
hot blood tempered with honesty and courage, and without one single
taint of meanness.

As he passed down the river bank, beyond which the racing waters
flowed a veritable torrent, he saw the camp women moving about outside
their huts. He saw them wringing out their rain-drenched garments.
Thus he knew that the storm had served their miserable homes badly,
and he felt sorry for them.

For the most part they were heavy, frowsy creatures, slatternly and
uncouth. They came generally from the dregs of frontier cities, or
were the sweepings of the open country, gleaned in the debauched
moments of the men who protected them. Nor, as his eyes wandered in
their direction, was it possible to help a comparison between them and
the burden of delicate womanhood he held in his arms, a comparison
which found them painfully wanting.

He passed on under the bold scrutiny of those feminine eyes, but they
left him quite unconscious. His thoughts had drifted into a wonderful
dreamland of his own, a dreamland such as he had never visited before,
an unsuspected dreamland whose beauties could never again hold him as
they did now.

The sparkling sunlight which had so swiftly followed in the wake of
the storm, lapping up the moisture of the drenching earth with its
fiery tongue, shed a radiance over the familiar landscape, so that it
revealed new and unsuspected beauties to his wondering eyes. How came
it that the world, his world, looked so fair? The distant hills, those
hills which had always thrilled his heart with the sombre note of
their magnificence, those hills which he had known since his earliest
childhood, with their black, awe-inspiring forests, they were somehow
different, so different.

He traced the purple ridges step by step till they became a blurred,
gray monotony of tone fading away until it lost itself in the
glittering white of the snowcaps. Everything he beheld in a new light.
No longer did those hills represent the battle-ground where he and the
Padre fought out their meagre existence. They had suddenly become one
vast and beautiful garden where life became idyllic, where existence
changed to one long joy. The torrents had shrunk to gentle streams,
babbling their wonderful way through a fairy-land of scented gardens.
The old forceful tearing of a course through the granite hearts of the
hills was a thought of some long-forgotten age far back in the dim
recesses of memory. The gloom of the darkling forests, too, had passed
into the sunlit parks of delight. The rugged canyons had given place
to verdant valleys of succulent pasture. The very snows themselves,
those stupendous, changeless barriers, suggested nothing so much as
the white plains of perfect life.

The old harsh lines of life had passed, and the sternness of the
endless battle had given way to an unaccountable joy.

Every point that his delighted eyes dwelt upon was tinged with
something of the beatitude that stirred his senses. Every step he took
was something of an unreality. And every whispering sound in the
scented world through which he was passing found an echo of music in
his dreaming soul.

Contact with the yielding burden lying so passive in his strong arms
filled him with a rapture such as he had never known. The thought of
sex was still far from his mind, and only was the manhood in him
yielding to the contact, and teaching him through the senses that
which his upbringing had sternly denied him.

He gazed down upon the wonderful pale beauty of the girl's face. He
saw the rich parted lips between which shone the ivory of her perfect,
even teeth. The hair, so rich and flowing, dancing with glittering
beams of golden light, as, stirring beneath the breath of the
mountains, it caught the reflection of a perfect sun.

How beautiful she was. How delicate. The wonderful, almost transparent
skin. He could trace the tangle of small blue veins like a fairy web
through which flowed the precious life that was hers. And her
eyes--those great, full, round pupils hidden beneath the veil of her
deeply-fringed lids! But he turned quickly from them, for he knew that
the moment she awoke his dream must pass into a memory.

His gaze wandered to the swanlike roundness of her white throat, to
the gaping shirt-waist, where the delicate lace and tiny ribbon peeped
out at him. It was all so wonderful, so marvelous. And she was in his
arms--she, this beautiful stranger. Yet somehow she did not seem like
a stranger. To his inflamed fancy she seemed to have lain in his arms
all his life, all her life. No, she was no stranger. He felt that she
belonged to him, she was part of himself, his very life.

Still she slept on. He suddenly found himself moving with greater
caution, and he knew he was dreading the moment when some foolish
stumble of his should bring her back to that life which he feared yet
longed to behold. He longed for the delight of watching the play of
emotions upon her lovely features, to hear her speak and laugh, and to
watch her smile. He feared, for he knew that with her waking those
delicious moments would be lost to him forever.

So he dreamed on. In his inmost soul he knew he was dreaming, and, in
his reckless fashion, he desired the dream to remain unending. He saw
the old fur fort no longer the uncouth shelter of two lonely lives,
but a home made beautiful by a presence such as he had never dreamed
of, a presence that shed beauty upon all that came under the spell of
its influence. He pictured the warmth of delight which must be the
man's who lived in such an atmosphere.

His muscles thrilled at the thought of what a man might do under such
an inspiration. To what might he not aspire? To what heights might he
not soar? Success must be his. No disaster could come--

The girl stirred in his arms. He distinctly felt the movement, and
looked down into her face with sudden apprehension. But his anxiety
was swiftly dispelled, and a tender smile at once replaced the look in
his dark eyes. No, she had not yet awakened, and so he was content.

But the incident had brought him realization. His arms were stiff and
cramped, and he must rest them. Strong man that he was he had been
wholly unaware of the distance he had carried her.

He gently laid her upon the grass and looked about him. Then it was
that wonder crept into his eyes. He was at the ford of the creek, more
than two miles from the camp, and on the hither bank, where the road
entered the water, a spring cart lay overturned and broken, with the
team of horses lying head down, buried beneath the turbulent waters as
they raced on down with the flood.

Now he understood the full meaning of her presence in the camp. His
quick eyes took in every detail, and at once her coming was explained.
He turned back in the direction whence he had come, and his mind flew
to the distance of the ford from the camp. She had bravely faced a
struggle over two miles of a trail quite unknown to her when the worst
storm he had ever known was at its height. His eyes came back to the
face of the unconscious girl in even greater admiration.

"Not only beautiful but----"

He turned away to the wreck, for there were still things he wished to
know. And as he glanced about him he became more fully aware of the
havoc of the storm. Even in the brilliant sunshine the whole prospect
looked woefully jaded. Everywhere the signs told their pitiful tale.
All along the river bank the torn and shattered pines drooped
dismally. Even as he stood there great tree trunks and limbs of trees
were washed down on the flood before his eyes. The banks were still
pouring with the drainings of the hills and adding their quota to the
swelling torrent.

But the overturned spring cart held most interest just now, and he
moved over to it. The vehicle was a complete wreck, so complete,
indeed, that he wondered how the girl had escaped without injury. Two
trunks lay near by, evidently thrown out by the force of the upset,
and it pleased him to think that they had been saved to their owner.
He examined them closely. Yes, the contents were probably untouched by
the water. But what was this? The initials on the lid were "J. S." The
girl's name was Rest. At least so Mrs. Ransford had stated. He
wondered. Then his wonder passed. These were very likely trunks
borrowed for the journey. He remembered that the Padre had a leather
grip with other initials than his own upon it.

Where was the teamster? He looked out at the racing waters, and the
question answered itself. Then he turned quickly to the girl. Poor
soul, he thought, her coming to the farm had been one series of
disasters. So, with an added tenderness, he stooped and lifted her
gently in his arms and proceeded on his way.

At last he came to the farm, which only that morning he had so eagerly
avoided. And his feelings were not at all unpleasant as he saw again
the familiar buildings. The rambling house he had known so long
inspired him with a fresh joy at the thought of its new occupant. He
remembered how it had grown from a log cabin, just such as the huts of
the gold-seekers, and how, with joy and pride, he and the Padre had
added to it and reconstructed as the years went by. He remembered the
time when he had planted the first wild cucumber, which afterward
became an annual function and never failed to cover the deep veranda
with each passing year. There, too, was the cabbage patch crowded with
a wealth of vegetables. And he remembered how careful he had been to
select a southern aspect for it. The small barns, the hog-pens, where
he could even now hear the grunting swine grumbling their hours away.
The corrals, two, across the creek, reached by a log bridge of their
own construction. Then, close by stood the nearly empty hay corrals,
waiting for this year's crop. No, the sight of these things had no
regrets for him now. It was a pleasant thought that it was all so
orderly and flourishing, since this girl was its future mistress.

He reached the veranda before his approach was realized by the
farm-wife within. Then, as his footsteps resounded on the rough
surface of the flooring of split logs, Mrs. Ransford came bustling out
of the parlor door.

"Sakes on me!" she cried, as she beheld the burden in her visitor's
arms. "If it ain't Miss Rest all dead an' done!" Her red hands went up
in the air with such a comical tragedy, and her big eyes performed
such a wide revolution in their fat, sunburnt setting that Buck
half-feared an utter collapse. So he hurriedly sought to reassure
her, and offered a smiling encouragement.

"I allow she's mostly done, but I guess she's not dead," he said
quickly.

The old woman heaved a tragic sigh.

"My! but you made me turn right over, as the sayin' is. You should
ha' bin more careful, an' me with my heart too, an' all. The doctor
told me as I was never to have no shock to speak of. They might set
up hem--hemoritch or suthin' o' the heart, what might bring on
sing--sing--I know it was suthin' to do with singin', which means I'd
never live to see another storm like we just had, not if it sure come
on this minit----"

"I'm real sorry, ma'm," said Buck, smiling quietly at the old woman's
volubility, but deliberately cutting it short. "I mean about the shock
racket. Y' see she needs fixin' right, an' I guess it's up to you to
git busy, while I go an' haul her trunks up from the creek."

Again the woman's eyes opened and rolled.

"What they doin' in the creek?" she demanded with sudden heat. "Who
put 'em ther'? Some scallawag, I'll gamble. An' you standin' by seein'
it done, as you might say. I never did see sech a place, nor sech
folk. To think o' that pore gal a-settin' watchin' her trunks bein'
pushed into the creek by a lot o' loafin' bums o' miners, an' no one
honest enough, nor man enough to raise a hand to--to----"

"With respec', ma'm, you're talkin' a heap o' foolishness," cried Buck
impatiently, his anxiety for the girl overcoming his deference for the
other's sex. "If you'll show me the lady's room I'll carry her right
into it an' set her on her bed, an'----"

"Mercy alive, what's the world a-comin' to!" cried the indignant
farm-wife. "Me let the likes o' you into the gal's bedroom! You? Guess
you need seein' to by the State, as the sayin' is. I never heard the
like of it. Never. An' she jest a slip of a young gal, too, an' all."

But Buck's patience was quite exhausted, and, without a moment's
hesitation, he brushed the well-meaning but voluble woman aside and
carried the girl into the house. He needed no guidance here. He knew
which was the best bedroom and walked straight into it. There he laid
the girl upon an old chintz-covered settee, so that her wet clothes
might be removed before she was placed into the neat white bed waiting
for her. And the clacking tongue of Ma Ransford pursued his every
movement.

"It's an insult," she cried angrily. "An insult to me an' mine, as you
might say. Me, who's raised two daughters an' one son, all of 'em
dead, more's the pity. First you drown the gal an' her baggage, an'
then you git carryin' her around, an' walkin' into her virgin bedroom
without no by your leave, nor nuthin'."

But Buck quite ignored her protests. He felt it was useless to
explain. So he turned back and gave his final instructions from the
doorway.

"You jest get her right to bed, ma'm, an' dose her," he said amiably.
"I'd guess you best give her hot flannels an' poultices an' things
while I go fetch her trunks. After that I'll send off to Bay Creek fer
the doctor. He ain't much, but he's better than the hoss doctor fer
womenfolk. Guess I'll git back right away."

But the irate farm-wife, her round eyes blazing, slammed the door in
his face as she flung her final word after him.

"You'll git back nuthin'," she cried furiously. "You let me git you
back here agin an' you'll sure find a sort o' first-class hell runnin'
around, an' you won't need no hot flannels nor poultices to ke'p you
from freezin' stone cold."

Then, with perfect calmness and astonishing skill, she flung herself
to the task of caring for her mistress in that practical, feminine
fashion which, though he may appreciate, no man has ever yet quite
understood.




CHAPTER VIII

THE SECRET OF THE HILL


It was the morning following the great storm, a perfect day of
cloudless sunshine, and the Padre and Buck were on their way from the
fur fort to the camp. Their mission was to learn the decision of its
inhabitants as to their abandonment of the valley; and in the Padre's
pocket was a large amount of money for distribution.

The elder man's spirits were quietly buoyant. Nor did there seem to be
much reason why they should be. But the Padre's moods, even to his
friends, were difficult to account for. Buck, on the contrary, seemed
lost in a reverie which held him closely, and even tended to make his
manner brusque.

But his friend, in the midst of his own cheerful feelings, would not
allow this to disturb him. Besides, he was a far shrewder man than his
simple manner suggested.

"It's well to be doing, lad," he said, after some considerable
silence. "Makes you feel good. Makes you feel life's worth a bigger
price than we mostly set it at."

His quiet eyes took the other in in a quick, sidelong glance. He saw
that Buck was steadily, but unseeingly, contemplating the black slopes
of Devil's Hill, which now lay directly ahead.

"Guess you aren't feeling so good, boy?" he went on after a moment's
thoughtful pause.

The direct challenge brought a slow smile to Buck's face, and he
answered with surprising energy--

"Good? Why, I'm feelin' that good I don't guess even--even Beasley
could rile me this mornin'."

The Padre nodded with a responsive smile.

"And Beasley can generally manage to rile you."

"Yes, he's got that way, surely," laughed Buck frankly. "Y' see
he's--he's pretty mean."

"I s'pose he is," admitted the other. Then he turned his snow-white
head and glanced down at the lean flanks of Cæsar as the horse walked
easily beside his mare.

"And that boy, Kid, was out in all that storm on your Cæsar," he went
on, changing the subject quickly from the man whom he knew bore him an
absurd animosity. "A pretty great horse, Cæsar. He's looking none the
worse for fetching that whisky either. Guess the boys'll be getting
over their drunk by now. And it's probably done 'em a heap of good.
You did right to encourage 'em. Maybe there's folks would think
differently. But then they don't just understand, eh?"

"No."

Buck had once more returned to his reverie, and the Padre smiled. He
thought he understood. He had listened overnight to a full account of
the arrival of the new owner of their farm, and had gleaned some
details of her attractiveness and youth. He knew well enough how
surely the isolated mountain life Buck lived must have left him open
to strong impressions.

They set their horses at a canter down the long declining trail which
ran straight into the valley above which Devil's Hill reared its ugly
head. And as they went the signs of the storm lay everywhere about
them. Their path was strewn with débris. The havoc was stupendous.
Tree trunks were lying about like scattered nine-pins. Riven trunks,
split like match-wood by the lightning, stood beside the trail, gaunt
and hopeless. Partially-severed limbs hung drooping, their weeping
foliage appealing to the stricken world about them for a sympathy
which none could give. Even the hard, sun-baked trail, hammered and
beaten to an iron consistency under a hundred suns of summer, was
scored with now dry water-courses nearly a foot deep. With all his
knowledge and long experience of the mountains even the Padre was
filled with awe at the memory of what he had witnessed.

"Makes you think, Buck, doesn't it?" he said, pointing at a stately
forest giant stretched prone along the edge of the trail, its proud
head biting deeply into the earth, and its vast roots lifting twenty
and more feet into the air. "I was out in the worst of it, too," he
went on thoughtfully. Then he smiled at the recollection of his puny
affairs while the elements had waged their merciless war. "I was
taking a golden fox out of a trap, 'way back there on the side of the
third ridge. While I was doing it the first two crashes came. A
hundred and more yards away two pines, big fellers, guess they were
planted before the flood, were standing out solitary on a big rock
overhanging the valley below. They were there when I first bent over
the trap. When I stood up they were gone--rock and all. It made me
think then. Guess it makes me think more now."

"It surely was a storm," agreed Buck absently.

They reached the open valley, and here the signs were less, so, taking
advantage of the clearing, they set their horses at a fast gallop.
Their way took them skirting the great slope of the hill-base, and
every moment was bearing them on toward the old farm, for that way,
some distance beyond, lay the ford which they must cross to reach the
camp.

Neither seemed inclined for further talk. Buck was looking straight
out ahead in the direction of the farm, and his preoccupation had
given place to a smile of anticipation. The Padre was intent upon the
black slopes of the hill. Farther along, the hill turned away toward
the creek, and the trail bore to the left, passing on the hither side
of a great bluff of woods which stretched right up to the very corrals
of the farm. It was here, too, where the overhang of the suspended
lake came into view, where Yellow Creek poured its swift, shallow
torrent in the shadowed twilight of the single-walled tunnel and the
gold-seekers held their operations in a vain quest of fortune.

They had just come abreast of this point and the Padre was observing
the hill with that never-failing interest with which the scene always
filled him. He believed there was nothing like it in all the world,
and regarded it as a stupendous example of Nature's engineering. But
now, without warning, his interest leapt to a pitch of wonderment that
set his nerves thrilling and filled his thoughtful eyes with an
unaccustomed light of excitement. One arm shot out mechanically,
pointing at the black rocks, and a deep sigh escaped him.

"Mackinaw!" he cried, pulling his horse almost on to its haunches.
"Look at that!"

Buck swung round, while Cæsar followed the mare's example so abruptly
that his master was almost flung out of the saddle.

He, too, stared across in the direction indicated. And his whispered
exclamation was an echo of the other's astonishment.

"By the----!"

Then on the instant an almost unconscious movement, simultaneously
executed, set their horses racing across the open in the direction of
the suspended lake.

The powerful Cæsar, with his lighter burden, was the first to reach
the spot. He drew up more than two hundred yards from where the domed
roof forming the lake bed hung above the waters of the creek. He could
approach no nearer, and his rider sat gazing in wonder at the
spectacle of fallen rock and soil, and the shattered magnificence of
the acres of crushed and broken pine woods which lay before him.

The whole face of the hill for hundreds and hundreds of feet along
this side had been ruthlessly rent from its place and flung broadcast
everywhere, and, in the chaos he beheld, Buck calculated that hundreds
of thousands of tons of the blackened rock and subsoil had been
dislodged by the tremendous fall.

Just for an instant the word "washout" flashed through his mind. But
he dismissed it without further consideration. How could a washout
sever such rock? Even he doubted the possibility of lightning causing
such destruction. No, his thoughts flew to an earth disturbance of
some sort. But then, what of the lake? He gazed up at where the rocky
arch jutted out from the parent hill, and apprehension made him
involuntarily move his horse aside. But his observation had killed the
theory of an earth disturbance. Anything of that nature must have
brought the lake down. For the dislodgment began under its very
shadow, and had even further deepened the yawning cavern beneath its
bed.

The Padre's voice finally broke his reflections, and its tone
suggested that he was far less awed, and, in consequence, his thoughts
were far more practical.

"Their works are gone," he said regretfully. "I'd say there's not a
sluice-box nor a conduit left. Maybe even their tools are lost. Poor
devils!"

The man's calm words had their effect. Buck at once responded to the
practical suggestion.

"They don't leave their tools," he said. Then he pointed up at the
lake. "Say, what if that had come down? What if the bowels o' that
hill had opened up an' the water been turned loose? What o' the camp?
What o' the women an'--the kiddies?"

His imagination had been stirred again. Again the Padre's practice
brought him back.

"You don't need to worry that way, boy. It hasn't fallen. Guess the
earth don't fancy turning her secrets loose all at once."

Buck sighed.

"Yet I'd say the luck sure seems rotten enough."

There was no answer, and presently the Padre pointed at the face of
the hill.

"It was a washout," he said with quiet assurance. "See that face? It's
softish soil. Some sort of gravelly stuff that the water got at. Sort
of gravel seam in the heart of the rock."

Buck followed the direction indicated and sat staring at it. Then
slowly a curious look of hope crept into his eyes. It was the fanciful
hope of the imaginative.

"Here," he cried suddenly, "let's get a peek at it. Maybe--maybe the
luck ain't as bad as we think." And he laughed.

"What d'you mean?" asked the Padre sharply.

For answer he had to put up with a curt "Come on." And the next moment
he was following in Cæsar's wake as he picked his way rapidly amongst
the trees skirting the side of the wreckage. Their way lay inland from
the creek, for Buck intended to reach the cliff face on the western
side of the fall. It was difficult going, but, at the distance, safe
enough. Not until they drew in toward the broken face of the hill
would the danger really begin. There it was obvious enough to anybody.
The cliff was dangerously overhanging at many points. Doubtless the
saturation which had caused the fall had left many of those great
projections sufficiently loose to dislodge at any moment.

Buck sought out what he considered to be the most available spot and
drew his horse up. The rest must be done on foot. No horse could hope
to struggle over such a chaotic path. At his suggestion both animals
were tethered within the shelter of trees. At least the trees would
afford some slight protection should any more of the cliff give way.

In less than a quarter of an hour they stood a hundred feet from the
actual base of the cliff, and Buck turned to his friend.

"See that patch up there," he said, pointing at a spread of reddish
surface which seemed to be minutely studded with white specks. "Guess
a peek at it won't hurt. Seems to me it's about ten or twelve feet up.
Guess ther' ain't need for two of us climbin' that way. You best wait
right here, an' I'll git around again after a while."

The Padre surveyed the patch, and his eyes twinkled.

"Ten or twelve feet?" he said doubtfully. "Twenty-five."

"May be."

"You think it's----?"

Buck laughed lightly.

"Can't say what it is--from here."

The other sat down on an adjacent rock.

"Get right ahead. I'll wait."

Buck hurried away, and for some moments the Padre watched his slim
figure, as, scrambling, stumbling, clinging, he made his way to where
the real climb was to begin. Nor was it until he saw the tall figure
halt under an overhanging rock, which seemed to jut right out over his
head, and look up for the course he must take in the final climb, that
Buck's actual danger came home to the onlooker. He was very little
more given to realizing personal danger than Buck himself, but now a
sudden apprehension for the climber gripped him sharply.

He stirred uneasily as he saw the strong hands reach up and clutch the
jutting facets. He even opened his mouth to offer a warning as he saw
the heavily-booted feet mount to their first foothold. But he
refrained. He realized it might be disconcerting. A few breathless
moments passed as Buck mounted foot by foot. Then came the thing the
Padre dreaded. The youngster's hold broke, and a rock hurtled by him
from under his hand and very nearly dislodged him altogether.

In an instant the Padre was on his feet with the useless intention of
going to his aid, but, even as he stood up, his own feet shot from
under him, and he fell back heavily upon the rock from which he had
just risen.

With an impatient exclamation he looked down to discover the cause of
his mishap. There it lay, a loose stone of yellowish hue. He stooped
to remove it, and, in a moment, his irritation was forgotten. In a
moment everything else was forgotten. Buck was forgotten. The peril of
the hill. The cliff itself. For the moment he was lifted out of
himself. Years had passed away, his years of life in those hills. And
something of the romantic dreams of his early youth thrilled him once
again.

He stood up bearing the cause of his mishap clasped in his two hands
and stared down at it. Then, after a long while, he looked up at the
climbing man. He stood there quite still, watching his movements with
unseeing eyes. His interest was gone. The danger had somehow become
nothing now. There was no longer any thought of the active figure
moving up the face of the hill with cat-like clinging hands and feet.
There was no longer thought for his success or failure.

Buck reached his goal. He examined the auriferous facet with close
scrutiny and satisfaction. Then he began the descent, and in two
minutes he stood once more beside the Padre.

"It's high-grade quartz," he cried jubilantly as he came up.

The Padre nodded, his mind on other things.

"I'd say the luck's changed," Buck went on, full of his own discovery
and not noticing the other's abstraction. He was enjoying the thought
of the news he had to convey to the starving camp. "I'd say there's
gold in plenty hereabouts and the washout----"

The Padre suddenly thrust out his two hands which were still grasping
the cause of his discomfiture. He thrust them out so that Buck could
not possibly mistake the movement.

"There surely is--right here," he said slowly.

Buck gasped. Then, with shining eyes, he took what the other was
holding into his own two hands.

"Gold!" he cried as he looked down upon the dull yellow mass.

"And sixty ounces if there's a pennyweight," added the Padre
exultantly. "You see I--I fell over it," he explained, his quiet eyes
twinkling.




CHAPTER IX

GATHERING FOR THE FEAST


Two hours later saw an extraordinary change at the foot of Devil's
Hill. The wonder of the "washout" had passed. Its awe was no longer
upon the human mind. The men of the camp regarded it with no more
thought than if the destruction had been caused by mere blasting
operations. They were not interested in the power causing the wreck,
but only in their own motives, their own greedy longings, their own
lust for the banquet of gold outspread before their ravening eyes.

The Padre watched these people his news had brought to the hill with
tolerant, kindly eye. He saw them scattered like a small swarm of bees
in the immensity of the ruin wrought by the storm. They had for the
time forgotten him, they had forgotten everything in the wild moment
of long-pent passions unloosed--the danger which overhung them, their
past trials, their half-starved bodies, their recent sufferings. These
things were thrust behind them, they were of the past. Their present
was an insatiable hunger for finds such as had been thrust before
their yearning eyes less than an hour ago.

He stood by and viewed the spectacle with a mind undisturbed, with a
gentle philosophy inspired by an experience which he alone could
appreciate. It was a wonderful sight. The effort, the haste, the
almost insane intentness of these people seeking the yellow metal, the
discovery of which was the whole bounds of their horizon. He felt
that it was good to see them. Good that these untamed passions should
be allowed full sway. He felt that such as these were the advance
guard of all human enterprise. Theirs was the effort, theirs the
hardship, the risk; and after them would come the trained mind,
perhaps the less honest mind, the mind which must harness the result
of their haphazard efforts to the process of civilization's evolution.
He even fancied he saw something of the influence of this day's work
upon the future of that mountain world.

But there was regret too in his thought. It was regret at the
impossibility of these pioneers ever enjoying the full fruits of their
labors. They would enjoy them in their own way, at the moment, but
such enjoyment was not adequate reward for their daring, their
sacrifice, their hardihood. Well enough he knew that they were but the
toilers in a weed-grown vineyard, and that it would fall to the lot of
the skilled husbandman to be the man who reaped the harvest.

It was a picture that would remain long enough in his memory. The
flaying picks rising and falling amongst the looser débris, the
grinding scrape of the shovel, turning again and again the heavy red
gravel. The shouts of hoarse voices hailing each other in jubilant
tones, voices thrilling with a note of hope such as they had not known
for weeks. He saw the hard muscles of sunburnt arms standing out
rope-like with the terrific labor they were engaged in. And in the
background of it all he saw the grim spectacle of the blackened hill,
frowning down like some evil monster, watching the vermin life eating
into a sore it was powerless to protect.

It was wonderful, the transformation of these things. And yet it was
far less strange than his witness of the spectacle of the beaten,
hopeless men he had helped so long up in the camp. He was glad.

He was glad, too, that even Buck had been caught in the fever of the
moment. He saw him with the rest, with borrowed tools, working with a
vigor and enthusiasm quite unsurpassed by the most ardent of the
professional gold-seekers. Yet he knew how little the man was tainted
with the disease of these others. He had no understanding whatever of
the meaning of wealth. And the greed of gold had left him quite
untouched. His was the virile, healthy enthusiasm for a quest for
something which was hidden there in the wonderful auriferous soil, a
quest that the heart of any live man is ever powerless to resist.

With him it would last till sundown, maybe, and after that the fever
would pass from his veins. Then the claims of the life that had always
been his would reassert themselves.

After a while the Padre's thoughts drifted to the pressing
considerations of the future. Several times he had heard the shouts of
men who had turned a nugget up in the gravel. And at each such cry he
had seen the rush of others, and the feverish manner in which they
took possession of the spot where the lucky individual was working and
hustled him out. It was in these rushes that he saw the danger lying
ahead.

Hitherto these men had been accustomed to the slow process of washing
"pay-dirt." It was not only slow, but unemotional. It had not the
power to stir the senses to a pitch of excitement like this veritable
Tom Tiddler's ground, pitchforked into their very laps by one of
Nature's freakish impulses.

With this thought came something very like regret at the apparent
richness of the find. Something must be done, and done without delay,
to regulate the situation. The place must be arranged in claims, and
definite regulations must be laid down and enforced by a council of
the majority. He felt instinctively that this would be the only way to
avert a state of anarchy too appalling to contemplate. It would be an
easy matter now, but a hopeless task to attempt later on. Yes, a big
trouble lay in those rushes, which seemed harmless enough at present.
And he knew that his must be the work of straightening out the
threatened tangle.

But for the moment the fever must be allowed to run riot. It must work
itself out with the physical effort of hard muscles. In the calm of
rest after labor counsel might be offered and listened to. But not
until then.

So that memorable day wore on to its close. The luck had come not in
the petty find such as these men had looked for, but in proportions of
prodigal generosity such as Nature sometimes loves to bestow upon
those whom she has hit the hardest. She had called to her aid those
strange powers of which she is mistress and hurled them headlong to do
her bidding. She had bestowed her august consent, and lo, the earth
was opened, and its wealth poured out at the very feet of those who
had so long and so vainly sought it.




CHAPTER X

SOLVING THE RIDDLE


The new owner of the Padre's farm had quite recovered from the effects
of her disastrous journey. Youth and a sound constitution, and the
overwhelming ministrations of Mrs. Ransford had done all that was
needed to restore her.

She was sitting in an old, much-repaired rocking-chair, in what was
obviously the farm's "best" bedroom. Her trunks, faithfully recovered
from the wreck of the cart by the only too willing Buck, stood open on
the floor amidst a chaotic setting of their contents, while the old
farm-wife herself stood over them, much in the attitude of a faithful
and determined watch-dog.

The girl looked on indifferent to the confusion and to the damage
being perpetrated before her very eyes. She was lost in thoughts of
her own which had nothing to do with such fripperies as lawns, and
silks, and _suèdes_, or any other such feminine excitements. She was
struggling with recollection, and endeavoring to conjure it. There was
a blank in her life, a blank of some hours, which, try as she would,
she could not fill in. It was a blank, as far as she could make out,
which terminated in her arrival at the farm _borne in the arms of some
strange man_.

Well might such a thought shut out considerations like the almost
certain destruction of a mere wardrobe at the hands of her ignorant
but well-meaning helper. It would have been exciting, too, but for her
memory of the latter stages of her journey. They were still painful.
There was still uncertainty as to what had happened to the teamster
and the horses.

At last, however, she abandoned further attempt to solve the riddle
unaided, and decided to question her housekeeper.

"Was it the same man who brought those trunks--I mean the same man
who--brought me here?" she demanded sharply.

"It surely was," replied Mrs. Ransford, desisting for a moment from
her efforts to bestow a pile of dainty shoes into a night-dress case
of elaborate drawn thread work. "An' a nice mess he's got things in.
Jest look at 'em all tossed about, same as you might toss slap-jacks,
as the sayin' is. It's a mercy of heaven, an' no thanks to him, you've
got a rag fit to wear. It surely ain't fer me to say it, but it's real
lucky I'm here to put things right for you. Drat them shoes! I don't
guess I'll ever git 'em all into this bag, miss--ma'm--I mean miss,
mum."

Something of the tragedy of her wardrobe became evident to the girl
and she went to the rescue.

"I'm sorry, but they don't go in there," she said, feeling that an
apology was due for her interference in such well-intended efforts.
"That's--you see, that's my sleeping-suit case," she added gently.

"Sleepin'-soot?" A pair of round, wondering eyes stared out through
the old woman's glasses.

The girl pointed at the silk trousers and jacket lying just inside the
nearest trunk, and the farm-wife picked them up gingerly, letting them
unfold as she did so. Just for one moment she inspected them, then
she hurriedly let them drop back into the trunk as though they were
some dangerous reptile, and, folding her arms, glared into the girl's
smiling face in comical reproach.

"You sure don't wear them pants, miss--at night? Not reely?" she
exclaimed in horrified tones.

The girl's smile hardened.

"Why, yes. Lots of girls wear sleeping-suits nowadays."

"You don't say!"

The old woman pursed up her lips in strong disapproval. Then, with a
disdainful sniff, she went on--

"Wot gals ain't comin' to I don't know, I'm sure. Wot with silk next
their skin an' them draughty stockin's, as you might say, things is
gettin' to a pretty pass. Say, I wouldn't put myself into them pants,
no, not if the President o' the United States was to stand over me an'
wouldn't let me put on nuthin' else."

The girl refrained from reply, but the obvious impossibility of the
feat appealed to her sense of humor. However, the solution of her
riddle was of prevailing interest, so she returned again to her
questioning.

"Did he say how he found me?" she demanded. "Did he tell you any--any
particulars of what happened to the cart, and--and the teamster?"

"No, ma'm--miss, beggin' your pardin,--that he didn't. I never see
sech a fresh feller outside a noospaper office. An' him the owner of
this farm that was, but isn't, as you might say. You take my word for
it he'll come to a bad end, he sure will. Wot with them wicked eyes of
his, an' that black, Dago-lookin' hair. I never did see a feller who
looked more like a scallawag than him. Makes me shiver to think of
him a-carryin' you in his two arms. Wher' from sez I--_an' why_?"

"Because I couldn't walk, I expect," the girl replied easily.

The farm-wife shook a fat, warning finger at her.

"Oh, ma'm--miss--that's wot he says! You jest wait till you've got
more experience o' scallawags like him an' you'll sure know. Wot I sez
is men's that full o' tricks wher' females is to be deceived it 'ud
take 'em a summer vacation sortin' 'emselves out. Men is shockin'
scallawags," she finished up, flinging the shoes pell-mell into the
open trunk.

A further rescue of her property was necessary and the girl protested.

"Please don't bother any more with those clothes," she cried
hurriedly. "I'll see to them myself." Then, as the woman proceeded to
mop her perspiring brow with a pair of silk stockings, she sprang up
and thrust a hand-towel toward her. "Use this; you'll find it more
absorbent than--er--silk."

The old woman thanked her profusely, and made the exchange. And when
the operation was completed the relieved girl returned to her seat and
went on with her examination.

"What did you say his name was?"

"I didn't say. An' he didn't tell me, neither. Fellers like him ain't
never ready with their names. Maybe he calls himself Moreton Kenyon.
Y' see he was the same as handed the farm over, an' you tol' me, back
ther' in Leeson Butte, you'd bo't Moreton Kenyon's farm. 'Moreton
Kenyon!' Sort o' high-soundin' name for such a scallawag. I don't
never trust high-soundin' names. They're most like whitewash. You
allus set that sort o' stuff on hog-pens an' sech, as you might say."

"Perhaps he's not as bad as you suspect," the girl suggested kindly.
"Lots of good people start by making a bad impression."

"I don't know what that means," cried the other promptly. "But I do
know what a scallawag is, an' that's him."

It was useless to seek further information from such a source, so the
girl abandoned the attempt, and dismissed the pig-headed housekeeper
to her work, work which she felt she was far better suited to than
such a delicate operation as the straightening out a wardrobe.

When Mrs. Ransford had taken her unwilling departure, not without
several well-meaning protests, the girl bent her own energies to
restoring order to her wardrobe. Nor was it an easy task. The
masculine manner of the bedroom left much to be desired in those
little depositories and cupboards, without which no woman can live in
comfort. And during the process of disposing her belongings many
mental notes were made for future alterations in the furnishings of
her new abode.

It was not a bad room, however. The simplicity and cleanliness of it
struck wholesomely upon her. Yes, in spite of what her lieutenant had
said about him, Mr. Moreton Kenyon was certainly a man of some
refinement. She had never heard that such neatness and cleanliness was
the habit amongst small bachelor farmers in the outlands of the West.
And this was the man who had carried her--where from?

Again she sat down in the rocker and gave herself up to the puzzlement
of those hours of her unconsciousness. The last event that was clear
in her mind was the struggle of the teamster to keep his horses
head-on for the bank of the flooded river. She remembered the surging
waters, she remembered that the bottom of the cart was awash, and that
she sat with her feet lifted and resting on the side of the vehicle.
She remembered that the horses were swimming before the driver's
flogging whip and blasphemous shoutings. All this was plain enough
still. Then came the man's order to herself. He warned her to get
ready to jump, and she had been quick to realize the necessity. In
spite of the horses' wildest struggles the cart was being washed
down-stream. Then had come his final shout. And she had jumped on the
instant.

At this point of her recollections things became confused. She had a
hazy memory of floundering in the water, also she remembered a heavy
blow on the shoulder. Then some one seemed to seize hold of her. It
must have been the teamster, though she did not remember seeing him in
the water. How she got out was a mystery to her. Again it must have
been the teamster. Then what of him? Mrs. Ransford had not spoken of
him. Had he, too, escaped? or had he--she shuddered. For some moments
her thoughts depressed her. The thought of a brave man's life
sacrificed for her was too terrible.

But after a while she continued in a lighter strain. It was at this
point that the blank began. True, she seemed to have some dim
recollection of a rough hut. It seemed to be made of logs. Then, too,
she had a dreamy sort of cognizance of a number of men's voices
talking. Then--no, there was nothing more after that. Nothing until
she awoke and found herself in bed, with a strange doctor standing
over her.

It was all very puzzling, but--she turned toward the window as the
afternoon sun fell athwart it and lit the plain interior of her new
bedroom, searching the corners and the simple furnishings of the
carpetless room.

From where she sat she could see the barns and corrals, and beyond
them the heavy-hued pine woods. Then, away out far, far in the
distance, the endless white snowcaps of the purpling hills. What a
scene to her unaccustomed eyes. The breadth of it. The immensity.

She drew a deep breath and sat up.

She was dressed in a simple white shirt-waist and blue serge skirt,
and her masses of red-gold hair were loosely coiled about her
well-shaped head. The eager light of interest in her violet eyes lit
her beautiful young face, lending it an animation which added a
wonderful vitality to her natural beauty. The firm, rich lips were
parted eagerly. The wide-open eyes, so deeply intelligent, shone with
a lustre of delight there was no mistaking. Her rounded bosom rose and
fell rapidly as the glad thought flew through her brain that
this--this was her new home, where she was to forget the past and shut
out all recollection of that evil shadow which had so long pursued
her.

Yes, this was the beginning of her new life. Joan Stanmore was dead,
and out of the ashes had arisen Joan Rest, ready to face the world in
a spirit of well-doing bachelorhood. Here, here in the wild mountain
world, where men were few and apart from her old life, she could face
the future with perfect confidence.

She breathed a deep sigh of contentment and lolled back in the rocker,
dropping her eyes from the snow-crowned hills to the precious little
farm that was all hers. Then, in an instant, she sat up again as the
tall figure of a young man appeared round the corner of the barn.

For some moments she followed his movements wonderingly. He walked
straight over to the hay corral with long, easy strides. There was
none of the slouch of a man idling about him. His whole attitude was
full of distinct purpose. She saw him enter the corral and mount the
half-cut haystack, and proceed to cut deeper into it. A moment later
he pitched the loose hay to the ground, and himself slid down on to
it. Then, stooping, he gathered it in his arms and left the corral.

Now she saw his face for the first time. It was dark. Nor could she be
certain that his coloring was due to sunburn. His eyes were dark, too,
and his hair. He was a good-looking man, she decided, and quite young.
But how tall. And what shoulders. She wondered who he was, and what he
was doing on her farm.

Then, of a sudden, she remembered she had spoken of a hired man to
Mrs. Ransford. Had she----?

Her reflections were cut short by the sudden appearance of the
farm-wife from the house. The old woman trotted hastily across the
yard toward the barn, her fat sides shaking as she waddled, and her
short, stout arms violently gesticulating. Joan needed nothing more
than the good woman's back view to tell her that the dame was very
angry, and that it was the stranger who had inspired her wrath. She
waited, smiling, for the _dénouement_.

It came quickly. It came with the reappearance of the stranger round
the corner of the barn. What a splendid specimen of a man, she
thought, as she watched the expression of unruffled calm on his strong
features. His shirt sleeves were rolled well up above his elbows, and
even at that distance she could see the deep furrows in his arms
where the rope-like muscles stood out beneath the thin, almost
delicate skin.

But her attention was quickly diverted by the clacking of the
farm-wife's tongue. She could hear it where she sat with the window
tight shut. And though she could not hear the words it was plain
enough from the violence of her gesticulations that she was rating the
patient man soundly. So patent was it, so dreadful, that even in her
keenest interest Joan found herself wondering if Mr. Ransford were
dead, and hoping that, if he were, his decease had occurred in early
youth.

Nor had the man made any attempt at response. She was sure of it,
because she had watched his firm lips, and they had not moved. Perhaps
he had found retort impossible. It was quite possible, for the other
had not paused a moment in her tirade. What a flow. It was colossal,
stupendous. Joan felt sorry for the man.

What a patience he had. Nor had his expression once altered. He merely
displayed the thoughtful attention that one might bestow, listening to
a brilliant conversationalist or an interesting story. It was too
ridiculous, and Joan began to laugh.

Then the end came abruptly and without warning. Mrs. Ransford just
swung about and trotted furiously back to the house. Her face was
flaming, and her fat arms, flourishing like unlimber flails, were
pointing every verbal threat she hurled over her shoulder at the spot
where the man had stood. Yes, he had vanished again round the corner
of the barn, and the poor woman's best efforts were quite lost upon
the warm summer air.

But her purpose was obvious, and Joan prepared herself for a
whirlwind visitation. Nor had she long to wait. There was a shuffling
of feet out in the passage, and, the next moment, the door of her room
was unceremoniously flung open and the indignant woman staggered in.

"Well, of all the impidence, of all the sass, of all the ignorant bums
that ever I----!" She exploded, and stood panting under the strain of
her furious emotions.

But Joan felt she really must assert herself. This sort of reign of
terror must not go on.

"Don't fluster yourself, Mrs. Ransford," she said calmly. "I'll see to
the matter myself."

But she might as well have attempted to stem the tide of the river
that had wrecked her journey as stay the irate woman's tongue.

"But it's him!" she cried. "Him, that low-down scallawag that carried
you in his arms an' walked right into this yere bedroom an' laid you
on your own virgin bed without no by your leave nor nuthin'. Him, as
saw your trunks drownded an' you all mussed up with water, without
raisin' a hand to help, 'less it was to push you further under----"

But Joan was equal to no more. She pushed the well-meaning creature on
one side and hurried out of the house, while the echoes of the other's
scathing indictment died down behind her.

Joan did not hesitate. It was not her way to hesitate about anything
when her mind was made up. And just now she was determined to find out
the real story of what had happened to her. She was interested. This
man had carried her. He had brought her trunks up. And--yes, she liked
the look of him.

But she felt it necessary to approach the matter with becoming
dignity. She was not given much to standing on her dignity, but she
felt that in her association with the men of these parts she must
harden herself to it. All friendships with men were banned. This she
was quite decided upon. And she sighed as she passed round the angle
of the barn.

Her sigh died at its birth, however, and she was brought to a short
and terrified halt. Two prongs of a hayfork gleamed viciously within
three inches of her horrified eyes, and, behind them, with eyes no
less horrified, stood the dark-haired stranger.




CHAPTER XI

THE SHADOW OF THE PAST


The gleaming prongs of the fork were sharply withdrawn, and a pleasant
voice greeted the girl.

"Guess that was a near thing," it said half-warningly.

Joan had started back, but at the sound of the voice she quickly
recovered herself.

"It was," she agreed. Then as she looked into the smiling eyes of the
stranger she began to laugh.

"Another inch an' more an' you'd sure have been all mussed up on that
pile of barn litter," he went on, joining in her laugh.

"I s'pose I should," Joan nodded, her mirth promptly sobering to a
broad smile.

She had almost forgotten her purpose so taken up was she in observing
this "scallawag," as Mrs. Ransford had called him. Nor did it take her
impressionable nature more than a second to decide that her worthy
housekeeper was something in the nature of a thoroughly stupid woman.
She liked the look of him. She liked his easy manner. More than all
she liked the confident look of his dark eyes and his sunburnt face,
so full of strength.

"Hayforks are cussed things anyway," the man said, flinging the
implement aside as though it had offended him.

Joan watched him. She was wondering how best to approach the questions
in her mind. Somehow they did not come as easily as she had
anticipated. It was one thing to make up her mind beforehand, and
another to put her decision into execution. He was certainly not the
rough, uncouth man she had expected to find. True, his language was
the language of the prairie, and his clothes, yes, they surely
belonged to his surroundings, but there was none of the uncleanness
about them she had anticipated.

It was his general manner, however, that affected her chiefly. How
tall and strong he was, and the wonderful sunburn on his clean-cut
face and massive arms! Then he had such an air of reserve. No, it was
not easy.

Finally, she decided to temporize, and wait for an opening. And in
that she knew in her heart she was yielding to weakness.

"My housekeeper tells me it was you who handed the farm over to her?"
she said interrogatively.

The man's eyes began to twinkle again.

"Was that your--housekeeper?" he inquired.

"Yes--Mrs. Ransford."

Joan felt even less at her ease confronted by those twinkling eyes.

"She's a--bright woman."

The man casually picked up a straw and began to chew it.

Joan saw that he was smiling broadly, and resented it. So she threw
all the dignity she could summon into her next question.

"Then you must be Mr. Moreton Kenyon!" she said.

The man shook his head.

"Wrong. That's the 'Padre,'" he announced curtly.

Joan forgot her resentment in her surprise.

"The 'Padre'! Why, I thought Mr. Kenyon was a farmer!"

The man nodded.

"So he is. You see folks call him Padre because he's a real good
feller," he explained. Then he added: "He's got white hair, too. A
whole heap of it. That sort o' clinched it."

The dark eyes had become quite serious again. There was even a tender
light in them as he searched the girl's fair face. He was wondering
what was yet to come. He was wondering how this interview was to bear
on the future. In spite of his easy manner he dreaded lest the threats
of Mrs. Ransford were about to be put into execution.

Joan accepted his explanation.

"I see," she said. Then, after a pause: "Then who are you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm 'Buck,'" he responded, with a short laugh.

"Buck--who?"

"Jest plain 'Buck.'" Again came that short laugh.

"Mr. Kenyon's son?"

The man shook his head, and Joan tried again.

"His nephew?"

Again came that definite shake. Joan persisted, but with growing
impatience.

"Perhaps you're--his partner?" she said, feeling that if he again
shook his head she must inevitably shake him.

But she was spared a further trial. Buck had been quick to realize
her disappointment. Nor had he any desire to inspire her anger. On the
contrary, his one thought was to please and help her.

"You see we're not related. Ther's nuthin' between us but that he's
jest my great big friend," he explained.

His reward came promptly in the girl's sunny smile. And the sight of
it quickened his pulses and set him longing to hold her again in his
arms as he had done only yesterday. Somehow she had taken a place in
his thoughts which left him feeling very helpless. He never remembered
feeling helpless before. It was as though her coming into his life had
robbed him of all his confidence. Yesterday he had found a woman
almost in rags. Yesterday she was in trouble, and it had seemed the
simplest thing in the world for him to take her in his arms and carry
her to the home he knew to be hers. Now--now, all that confidence was
gone. Now an indefinable barrier, but none the less real, had been
raised between them. It was a barrier he felt powerless to break down.
This beautiful girl, with her deep violet eyes and wonderful red-gold
hair, clad in her trim costume of lawn and serge, seemed to him like a
creature from an undreamed-of world, and as remote from him as if
thousands of miles separated them. He sighed as Joan went on with her
examination--

"I suppose you have come to fetch some of your big friend's
belongings?" she said pleasantly.

For answer Buck suddenly flung out a protecting arm.

"Say, you're sure getting mussed with that dirty litter," he said
almost reproachfully. "See, your fixin's are right agin it. Say----"

Joan laughed outright at his look of profound concern.

"That doesn't matter a bit," she exclaimed. "I must get used to being
'mussed-up.' You see, I'm a farmer--now."

The other's concern promptly vanished. He loved to hear her laugh.

"You never farmed any?" he asked.

"Never." Joan shook her head in mock seriousness. "Isn't it desperate
of me? No, I'm straight from a city."

Buck withdrew his gaze from her face and glanced out at the hills. But
it was only for a moment. His eyes came back as though drawn by a
magnet.

"Guess you'll likely find it dull here--after a city," he said at
last. "Y' see, it's a heap quiet. It ain't quiet to me, but then I've
never been to a city--unless you call Leeson Butte a city. Some folks
feel lonesome among these big hills."

"I don't think I shall feel lonesome," Joan said quickly. "The peace
and quiet of this big world is all I ask. I left the city to get away
from--oh, from the bustle of it all! Yes, I want the rest and quiet of
these hills more than anything else in the world."

The passionate longing in her words left Buck wondering. But he nodded
sympathetically.

"I'd say you'd get it right here," he declared. Then he turned toward
the great hills, and a subtle change seemed to come over his whole
manner. His dark eyes wore a deep, far-away look in which shone a
wonderfully tender affection. It was the face of a man who, perhaps
for the first time, realizes the extent and depth of his love for the
homeland which is his.

"It's big--big," he went on, half to himself. "It's so big it
sometimes makes me wonder. Look at 'em," he cried, pointing out at the
purpling distance, "rising step after step till it don't seem they can
ever git bigger. An' between each step there's a sort of world
different from any other. Each one's hidden all up, so pryin' eyes
can't see into 'em. There's life in those worlds, all sorts of life.
An' it's jest fightin', lovin', dyin', eatin', sleepin', same as
everywhere else. There's a big story in 'em somewhere--a great big
story. An' it's all about the game of life goin' on in there, jest the
same as it does here, an' anywher'. Yes, it's a big story and hard to
read for most of us. Guess we don't ever finish readin' it,
anyway--until we die. Don't guess they intended us to. Don't guess it
would be good for us to read it easy."

He turned slowly from the scene that meant so much to him, and smiled
into Joan's astonished eyes.

"An' you're goin' to git busy--readin' that story?" he asked.

The startled girl found herself answering almost before she was aware
of it.

"I--I hope to," she said simply.

Then she suddenly realized her own smallness. She felt almost
overpowered with the bigness of what the man's words had shown her. It
was wonderful to her the thought of this--this "scallawag." The word
flashed through her mind, and with it came an even fuller realization
of Mrs. Ransford's stupidity. The man's thought was the poet's insight
into Nature's wonderlands. He was speaking of that great mountain
world as though it were a religion to him, as if it represented some
treasured poetic ideal, or some lifelong, priceless friendship.

She saw his answering nod of sympathy, and sighed her relief. Just for
one moment she had been afraid. She had been afraid of some sign of
pity, even contempt. She felt her own weakness without that. Now she
was glad, and went on with more confidence.

"I'm going to start from the very beginning," she said, with something
akin to enthusiasm. "I'm going to start here--right here, on my very
own farm. Surely the rudiments must lie here--the rudiments that must
be mastered before the greater task of reading that story is begun."
She turned toward the blue hills, where the summer clouds were wrapped
about the glistening snowcaps. "Yes," she cried, clasping her hands
enthusiastically, "I want to learn it all--all." Suddenly she turned
back and looked at him with a wonderful, smiling simplicity. "Will you
help me?" she said eagerly. "Perhaps--in odd moments? Will you help me
with those--lessons?"

Buck's breath came quickly, and his simple heart was set thumping in
his bosom. But his face was serious, and his eyes quite calm as he
nodded.

"It'll be dead easy for you to learn," he said, a new deep note
sounding in his voice. "You'll learn anything I know, an' much more,
in no time. You can't help but learn. You'll be quicker to understand,
quicker to feel all those things. Y' see I've got no sort of
cleverness--nor nuthin'. I jest look around an' see things--an' then,
then I think I know." He laughed quietly at his own conceit. "Oh, yes!
sometimes I guess I know it all. An' then I get sorry for folks that
don't, an' I jest wonder how it comes everybody don't understand--same
as me. Then something happens."

"Yes, yes."

Joan was so eager she felt she could not wait for the pause that
followed. Buck laughed.

"Something happens, same as it did yesterday," he went on. "Oh, it's
big--it sure is!" he added. And he turned again to his contemplation
of the hills.

But Joan promptly recalled his wandering attention.

"You mean--the storm?" she demanded.

Buck nodded.

"That--an' the other."

"What--other?"

"The washout," he said.

Then, as he saw the look of perplexity in the wide violet eyes, he
went on to explain--

"You ain't heard? Why, there was a washout on Devil's Hill, where for
nigh a year they bin lookin' for gold. Y' see they knew the gold was
there, but couldn't jest locate it. For months an' months they ain't
seen a sign o' color. They bin right down to 'hard pan.' They wer'
jest starvin' their lives clear out. But they'd sank the'r pile in
that hill, an' couldn't bring 'emselves to quit. Then along comes the
storm, an' right wher' they're working it washes a great lump o' the
hill down. Hundreds o' thousands o' tons of rock an' stuff it would
have needed a train load of dynamite to shift."

"Yes, yes." Joan's eagerness brought her a step nearer to him. "And
they found----"

"Gold!" Buck laughed. "Lumps of it."

"Gold--in lumps!" The girl's eyes widened with an excitement which the
discovery of the precious metal ever inspires.

The man watched her thoughtfully.

"Why aren't you there?" Joan demanded suddenly.

"Can't jest say." Buck shrugged. "Maybe it's because they bin lookin'
fer gold, an'--wal, I haven't."

"Gold--in lumps!" Again came the girl's amazed exclamation, and Buck
smiled at her enthusiasm.

"Sure. An' they kind o' blame you for it. They sort o' fancy you
brought 'em their luck. Y' see it came when you got around their hut.
They say ther' wasn't no luck to the place till you brought it. An'
now----"

Joan's eyes shone.

"Oh, I'm so glad. I'm so glad I've brought them----"

But her expression of joy was never completed. She broke off with a
sharp ejaculation, and the color died out of her cheeks, leaving her
so ghastly pale that the man thought she was about to faint. She
staggered back and leant for support against the wall of the barn, and
Buck sprang to her side. In a moment, however, she stood up and
imperiously waved him aside.

There was no mistaking the movement. Her whole manner seemed to have
frozen up. The frank girlishness had died as completely as though it
had never been, and the man stood abashed, and at a loss for
understanding.

Now he saw before him a woman still beautiful, but a woman whose eyes
had lost every vestige of that happy light. Despair was written in
every feature, despair and utter hopelessness. Her mouth, that
beautiful mouth so rich and delicate, was now tight shut as of one in
great suffering, and deep, hard lines had suddenly gathered about the
corners of it. The change smote him to the heart, but left him utterly
helpless.

Realization had come. Joan had suddenly remembered all that lay behind
her--all that had driven her to seek the remoteness of the wild
Western world. She had sought to flee from the fate which her Aunt
Mercy had told her was hers, and now she knew that she might as well
try to flee from her own shadow.

Oh, the horror of it all! These people believed that she had brought
them their luck. _She knew that she had._ What was the disaster that
must follow? What lives must go down before the sword a terrible Fate
had placed in her hand? For the moment panic held her in its grip. For
a moment it seemed that death alone could save her from the dread
consequences of the curse that was upon her. It was cruel, cruel--the
desolation, the hopelessness of it all. And in her sudden anguish she
prayed that death might be visited upon her.

But even amidst the horror of her realization the influence of the
man's presence was at work. She knew he was there a witness to the
terror she could not hide, and so she strove for recovery.

Then she heard him speak, and at the sound of his quiet tone her
nerves eased and she grew calmer.

"I don't guess you recovered from the storm. I'd sure say you need
rest," Buck said in his gentle, solicitous fashion. And in her heart
Joan thanked him for the encouragement his words gave her. He had
asked no questions. He had expressed no astonishment, and yet she knew
he must have realized that her trouble was no physical ailment.

"Yes," she said, jumping at the opening he had given her, "I'm tired.
I'll--I'll go back to the house."

Buck nodded, disguising his anxiety beneath a calm that seemed so
natural to him.

"Jest get back an' rest. You needn't worry any 'bout the hosses, an'
cows, an' things. I'm fixin' them for the night, an' I'll be right
along in the morning to do the chores. Y' see I know this farm, an'
all that needs doin'. Guess I was raised on it," he added, with a
smile, "so the work's sort o' second nature to me."

Joan's chance had come, but she passed it by. She knew she ought to
have refused his help. She ought to have, as Mrs. Ransford had said,
sent him about his business. But she did nothing of the sort. She
accepted. She did more. She held out her hand to him, and let him take
it in both of his in a friendly pressure as she thanked him.

"I'm--I'm very grateful," she said weakly. And the man flushed under
his sunburn, while his temples hammered as the hot young blood mounted
to his brain.

A moment later Buck stood staring at the angle of the barn round which
Joan had just vanished. He was half-dazed, and the only thing that
seemed absolutely real to him was the gentle pressure of her hand as
it had rested in his. He could feel it still; he could feel every
pressure of the soft, warm flesh where it had lain on his hard palms.
And all the time he stood there his whole body thrilled with an
emotion that was almost painful.

At last he stirred. He stooped and picked up the discarded fork. He
had no definite purpose. He was scarcely aware of his action. He held
it for a moment poised in the air. Then slowly he let the prongs of it
rest on the ground, and, leaning his chin on his hands clasped about
the haft, stared out at the hills and gave himself up to such a dream
as never before had entered his life.

The sun was dipping behind the snowcaps, and for half an hour the work
he had voluntarily undertaken remained untouched.

How much longer he would have remained lost in his wonderful dreaming
it would have been impossible to tell. But he was ruthlessly awakened,
and all his youthful ardor received a cold douche as the evening quiet
was suddenly broken by the harsh voices of the crowd of gold-seekers,
whom he suddenly beheld approaching the farm along the trail.




CHAPTER XII

THE GOLDEN WOMAN


Buck wondered as he noted the extraordinary picture of jubilation
which the approaching crowd presented. In all his association with
these people he had never witnessed anything to equal it or even come
near it. He never remembered anything like a real outburst of joy
during the long, dreary months since they had first camped on the
banks of Yellow Creek.

He watched the faces as they drew near. From the shelter of the barn,
whither he had retreated, he had them in full view. He looked for the
old, weary signs of their recent privations and sufferings. There were
none, not one. They had passed as utterly as though they had never
been.

It was a spectacle in which he found the greatest pleasure. The men
were clad in their work-stained clothing, their only clothing. Their
faces remained unwashed, and still bore the accumulations of dusty
sweat from their day's fevered labors. But it was the light in their
eyes, their grinning faces, the buoyancy of their gait that held him.
He heard their voices lifted in such a tone as would have seemed
impossible only a few days ago. The loud, harsh laugh, accompanying
inconsequent jests and jibes, it was good to hear. These men were
tasting the sweets of a moment of perfect happiness. Buck knew well
enough that soon, probably by the morrow, the moment would have
passed, and they would have settled again to the stern calling of
their lives.

All his sympathy was with them, and their joy was reflected in his own
feelings. Their hope was his hope, their buoyancy was his buoyancy.
For his happiness was complete at the moment, and thus he was left
free to feel with those others. Such was his own wonderful exaltation
that the thought of the termination of these people's suffering was
the final note that made his joy complete.

He laid his fork aside and waited till they had passed his retreat.
The object of their journey was obviously the farmhouse, and he felt
that he must learn their further purpose. He remembered Joan's going
from him. He had seen the pain and trouble in her beautiful eyes, and
so he feared that the sudden rush of animal spirits in these people
would drive them to extravagances, well enough meant, but which might
worry and even alarm her.

He moved quickly out of the barn and looked after them. They had
reached the house, and stood like a herd of subdued and silly sheep
waiting for a sign from their leader. It was a quaint sight. The laugh
and jest had died out, and only was the foolish grin left. Yes, they
certainly had a definite purpose in their minds, but they equally
certainly were in doubt as to how it should be carried out.

Buck drew nearer without attracting their attention. The men were so
deeply engaged with the dilemma of the moment that he might almost
have joined the group without observation. But he merely desired to be
on hand to help should the troubled girl need his help. He had no
desire to take active part in the demonstration. As he came near he
heard Beasley's voice, and the very sound of it jarred unpleasantly on
his ears. The man was talking in that half-cynical fashion which was
never without an added venom behind it.

"Well," he heard him exclaim derisively, "wot's doin'? You're all
mighty big talkers back ther' in camp, but I don't seem to hear any
bright suggestions goin' around now. You start this gorl-durned racket
like a pack o' weak-headed fools, yearnin' to pitch away what's been
chucked right into your fool laps jest fer one o' Blue Grass Pete's
fat-head notions. Well, wot's doin'? I ask."

"You ke'p that ugly map o' yours closed," cried Pete hotly. "_You_
ain't bein' robbed any."

"Guess I'll see to that," retorted Beasley, with a grin. "The feller
that robs me'll need to chew razors fer a pastime. If it comes to that
you're yearnin' fer glory at the Padre's expense--as usual."

Buck's ears tingled, and he drew closer. Beasley always had a knack of
so blending truth with his personal venom that it stung far more than
downright insult. He wondered what the Padre's generosity had been,
and wherein lay its connection with their present purpose. The
explanation was not long in coming, for Montana Ike took up the
challenge amidst a storm of ominous murmurs from the gathered men.

"Don't take nuthin' from him," cried the youngster scornfully. Then he
turned on Beasley fiercely. "You need Buck around to set you right,
Mister Lousy Beasley," he cried. "We ain't robbin' anybody, an' sure
not the Padre. He found that nugget, an' it's his to give or do wot he
likes with. The gal brought us the luck, an' the Padre guessed it was
only right she should have the first find. That nugget was the first
find, an' the Padre found it. Wal!" But as no reply was forthcoming he
hurried on, turning his tongue loose in the best abuse he could
command at the moment. "You're a rotten sort o' skunk anyway, an' you
ain't got a decent thought in your diseased head. I'd like to say
right here that you hate seein' a sixty-ounce lump o' gold in any
other hands than your own dirty paws. That's your trouble, so jest
shut right up while better folks handles a matter wot's a sight too
delicate fer a rotten mind like yours."

The smile had returned to every face except the foxy features of the
ex-Churchman, who for once had no adequate retort ready. Curly
Saunders nodded appreciation, and helped to solve the momentary
dilemma prevailing.

"That's sure done it fer you, Montana," he cried gleefully. "You make
the presentation. I'd say I never heard so elegant a flow of argyment
in this yer camp. You'll talk most pretty to the leddy."

"An' it ain't fer me to say I can't do it if need be, neither," said
Montana modestly. "Don't guess it's much of a stunt yappin' pretty to
a sorrel-topped gal."

Abe Allinson laughed.

"It's sure up to you, Ike," he said. "Guess you best git busy right
away."

The rest waited for the youngster's acceptance of the responsibility,
which promptly came with perfect good-will.

"Gee! But you're a gritty outfit," he cried, with a wide grin.
"Say, I guess you'd need a fence around you shootin' jack-rabbits.
Jack-rabbits is ter'ble fierce. Guess you'd most be skeered to death
at a skippin' lamb bleatin' fer its mother. Can't say I ever heerd
tell as a feller need be skeered of a pair o' gal's eyes, nor a sight
o' red ha'r. You said it was red, Pete, didn't you? I'd sure say a
bright feller don't need to worry any over talkin' pretty to a gal
like that. She's up agin a proposition if she thinks she ken skeer me.
Wher' is she? Jest call her out. She's goin' to git her med'cine right
here in the open. I ain't doin' no parlor tricks."

The boy stood out from the crowd with a decided show of mild bravado,
but he glanced about him, seeking the moral support of his fellows.

"You best knock on the door, Ike," said Curly quietly.

Ike hesitated. Then he turned doubtfully to those behind.

"You--you mean that?" he inquired. "You ain't foolin' none?" Then, as
though realizing his own weakness, he began to bluster. "Cos I ain't
takin' no foolin' in a racket o' this sort. An' any feller thinks he
ken fool me'll sure hate hisself when I'm through with him."

A mild snicker greeted his "big talk," and the boy flushed hotly. He
was half-inclined to add further resentment, but, second thoughts
prevailing, he abruptly turned to the door and hammered on it as
though anticipating stern resistance from those within.

       *       *       *       *       *

Inside the house Mrs. Ransford was debating the situation with her
mistress. She had witnessed the advance of the besieging party, and,
half-frightened and half-resentful, the latter perhaps the more
plainly manifested, she was detailing in unmeasured terms her opinions
and fears to the still harassed girl.

"Jest git a peek at 'em through the window, miss--'ma'm' I should say,
on'y I don't allus remember right, as you might say. Ther's twenty an'
more o' the lowest down bums ever I see outside a State penitentiary.
They're sure the most ter'blest lot ever I did see. An' they got
'emselves fixed up wi' guns an' knives, an' what not an' sech, till
you can't see the color o' their clothes fer the dirt on 'em. I'll
swar' to goodness, as the sayin' is, they ain't never see no water
sence they was christened, if they ever was christened, which I don't
believe no gospel preacher would ever so demean himself. An' as fer
soap, say, they couldn't even spell it if you was to hand 'em the
whole soap fact'ry literature of a fi'-cent daily noos-sheet. They're
jest ter'ble, an' it seems to me we sure need a reg'ment o' United
States Cavalry settin' around on horses an' field guns to pertect us,
ef we're to farm this one-hossed layout. They're 'bad men,' mum,
miss--which I made a mistake ag'in--that's wot they are. I've read
about 'em in the fi'-cent comics, so I sure know 'em when I see 'em.
You can't never make no mistake. They're jest goin' to shoot us all up
to glory, an' they'll dance around on our corpses, same as if they was
nuthin', nor no account anyways."

In spite of her recent shock Joan found herself smiling at the strange
mixture of fear and anger in the old woman's manner. But she felt it
necessary to check her flow of wild accusations. She guessed easily
enough who the men were that were approaching the house, but their
object remained a mystery.

"You're hasty. You mustn't judge these people by their appearance.
They're----"

But the feverish tongue was promptly set clacking again.

"An' wot, I asks, is they to be judged by if not by wot they are? They
jest come along a-yowlin', an' a-shootin' off'n their guns an' things,
same as they allus do when they's on the war-path. Scalps, that's wot
they's after. Scalps, no more an' no less. An' to think o' me at my
time o' life a-fallin' a prey to Injuns, as you might say. Oh, if on'y
my pore George D. Ransford was alive! He'd 'a' give 'em scalps. He was
a man, sure, even though he did set around playin' poker all night
when I was in labor with my twins. He was a great fighter was George
D.--as the marks on my body ken show to this very day."

At that instant there was a terrific knocking at the door which opened
directly into the parlor in which the waiting women were standing, and
the farm-wife jumped and staggered back, and, finally, collapsed into
an adjacent chair.

"Sakes on us," she cried, her fat face turning a sort of pea-green,
"if only my pore George D.----"

But Joan's patience could stand no more.

"For goodness' sake go back to your kitchen, you absurd creature. I'll
see to the matter. I----"

But the old woman wobbled to her feet almost weeping.

"Now, don't 'ee, miss," she cried in her tearful anxiety, getting her
form of address right the first time. "Don't 'ee be rash. Ther'll be
blood spilt, ther' sure will. Ther's on'y one way, miss, you must talk
'em nice, an', an' if they go fer to take liberties, you--why you,"
she edged toward her kitchen, "you jest send for me right away."

She hurried out, and the moment she was out of sight fled
precipitately to the farthest extremity of her own domain and armed
herself with the heavy iron shaker of the cook-stove.

In the meantime Joan went to the door and flung it wide open. In spite
of the farm-wife's warnings she had not a shadow of doubt as to the
peaceful object of the visitation, and rather felt that in some sort
of way it was intended as an expression of good-will and greeting. Had
not Buck told her that they held her in the light of some sort of
benefactor? So she stood in the doorway erect and waiting, with a calm
face, on which there was not a shadow of a smile.

She took in the gathering at a glance, and her eyes came to rest upon
the foremost figure of Montana Ike. She noted his slim, boyish figure,
the weak, animal expression shining in his furtive eyes. To h

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