Langford of the Three Bars

by Kate Boyles Bingham and Virgil D. Boyles

  CHAPTER XVIII

  FIRE!

  The wind arose along toward midnight--the wind that many a hardenedinhabitant would have foretold hours before had he been master of histime and thoughts. As a rule, no signal service was needed in the cowcountry. Men who practically lived in the open had a natural right toclaim some close acquaintance with the portents of approaching changes.But it would have been well had some storm flag waved over the littletown that day. For the wind that came slipping up in the night, first inlittle sighing whiffs and skirmishes, gradually growing more impatient,more domineering, more utterly contemptuous, haughty, and hungry,sweeping down from its northwest camping grounds, carried a deadlymenace in its yet warm breath to the helpless and unprotected cattlehuddled together in startled terror or already beginning their migrationby intuition, running with the wind.

  It rattled loose window-casings in the hotel, so that people turneduneasily in their beds. It sent strange creatures of the imagination toprowl about. Cowmen thought of the depleted herds when the riders shouldcome in off the free ranges in the Spring should that moaning wind meana real northwester.

  Louise was awakened by a sudden shriek of wind that swept through theslight aperture left by the raised window and sent something crashing tothe floor. She lay for a moment drowsily wondering what had fallen. Wasit anything that could be broken? She heard the steady push of the windagainst the frail frame building, and knew she ought to compel herselfsufficiently to be aroused to close the window. But she was very sleepy.The crash had not awakened Mary. She was breathing quietly and deeply.But she would be amenable to a touch--just a light one--and she did notmind doing things. How mean, though, to administer it in such a cause.She could not do it. The dilapidated green blind was flapping dismally.What time was it? Maybe it was nearly morning, and then the wind wouldprobably go down. That would save her from getting up. She snuggledunder the covers and prepared to slip deliciously off into slumberagain.

  But she couldn't go to sleep after all. A haunting suspicion preyed onher waking faculties that the crash might have been the water pitcher.She had been asleep and could not gauge the shock of the fall. It hadseemed terrific, but what awakens one from sleep is always abnormal toone's startled and unremembering consciousness. Still, it might havebeen the pitcher. She cherished no fond delusion as to theimpenetrability of the warped cottonwood flooring. Water might even thenbe trickling through to the room below. She found herself wonderingwhere the bed stood, and that thought brought her sitting up in a hurryonly to remember that she was over the musty sitting room with itsimpossible carpet. She would be glad to see it soaked--it might put alittle color into it, temporarily at least, and lay the dust of ages.But, sitting up, she felt herself enveloped in a gale of wind thatplayed over the bed, and so wisely concluded that if she wished to seethis court through without the risk of grippe or pneumoniacomplications, she had better close that window. So she slippedcautiously out of bed, nervously apprehensive of plunging her feet intoa pool of water. It had not been the pitcher after all. Even after thewindow was closed, there seemed to be much air in the room. The blindstill flapped, though at longer intervals. If it really turned cold, howwere they to live in that barn-like room, she and Mary? She thought ofthe campers out on the flat and shivered. She looked out of the windowmusingly a moment. It was dark. She wondered if Gordon had come home. Ofcourse he was home. It must be nearly morning. Her feet were gettingcold, so she crept back into bed. The next thing of which she wasconscious, Mary was shaking her excitedly.

  "What is it?" she asked, sleepily.

  "Louise! There's a fire somewhere! Listen!"

  Some one rushed quickly through the hall; others followed, knockingagainst the walls in the darkness. Then the awful, heart-clutching clangof a bell rang out--near, insistent, metallic. It was the meeting-housebell. There was no other in the town. The girls sprang to the floor. Thethought had found swift lodgment in the mind of each that the hotel wason fire, and in that moment Louise thought of the poisoned meat that hadonce been served to some arch-enemies of the gang whose chief was now ontrial for his liberty. So quickly does the brain work under stress ofgreat crises, that, even before she had her shoes and stockings on, shefound herself wondering who was the marked victim this time. NotWilliston,--he was dead. Not Gordon,--he slept in his own room back of theoffice. Not Langford,--he was bunking with his friend in that same room.Jim Munson? Or was the Judge the proscribed one? He was not a corruptjudge. He could not be bought. It might be he. Mary had gone to thewindow.

  "Louise!" she gasped. "The court-house!"

  True. The cloudy sky was reddened above the poor little temple ofjustice where for days and weeks the tide of human interest of a bigpart of a big State--ay, a big part of all the northwest country,maybe--had been steadily setting in and had reached its culmination onlyyesterday, when a gray eyed, drooping-shouldered, firm-jawed young manhad at last faced quietly in the bar of his court the defier of the cowcountry. To-night, it would dance its little measure, recite its fewlines on its little stage of popularity before an audience frenzied withappreciation and interest; to-morrow, it would be a heap of ashes, itsscene played out.

  "My note books!" cried Louise, in a flash of comprehension. She dressedhastily. Shirt-waist was too intricate, so she threw on a gay Japanesekimono; her jacket and walking skirt concealed the limitations of herattire.

  "What are you going to do?" asked Mary, also putting on clothes whichwere easy of adjustment. She had never gone to fires in the old daysbefore she had come to South Dakota; but if Louise went--gentle,high-bred Louise--why, she would go too, that was all there was about it.She had constituted herself Louise's guardian in this rough life thatmust be so alien to the Eastern girl. Louise had been very good to her.Louise's startled cry about her note books carried little understandingto her. She was not used to court and its ways.

  They hastened out into the hallway and down the stairs. They saw no onewhom they knew, though men were still dodging out from unexpected placesand hurrying down the street. It seemed impossible that theinconveniently built, diminutive prairie hotel could accommodate so manypeople. Louise found herself wondering where they had been packed away.The men, carelessly dressed as they were, their hair shaggy and unkempt,always with pistols in belt or hip-pocket or hand, made her shiver withdread. They looked so wild and weird and fierce in the dimly lightedhall. She clutched Mary's arm nervously, but no thought of returningentered her mind. Probably the Judge was already on the court-housegrounds. He would want to save some valuable books he had been readingin his official quarters. So they went out into the bleak and windynight. They were immediately enveloped in a wild gust that nearly sweptthem off their feet as it came tearing down the street. They clungtogether for a moment.

  "It'll burn like hell in this wind!" some one cried, as a bunch of menhurried past them. The words were literally whipped out of his mouth."Won't save a thing."

  Flames were bursting out of the front windows upstairs. The sky was allalight. Sparks were tossed madly southward by the wind. There was gravedanger for buildings other than the one already doomed. The roar of thewind and the flames was well-nigh deafening. The back windows and stairsseemed clear.

  "Hurry, Mary, hurry!" cried Louise, above the roar, and pressed forward,stumbling and gasping for the breath that the wild wind coveted. It wasnot far they had to go. There was a jam of men in the yard. More werecoming up. But there was nothing to do. Men shook their heads andshrugged their shoulders and watched the progress of the inevitable withthe placidity engendered of the potent "It can't be helped." But somethings might have been saved that were not saved had the first on thegrounds not rested so securely on that quieting inevitability. As thegirls came within the crowded circle of light, they overheard somethingof a gallant attempt on the part of somebody to save the countyrecords--they did not hear whether or no the attempt had been successful.They made their way to the rear. It was still dark.

  "Louise! What are you going to do?" cried Ma
ry, in consternation. Therewere few people on this side. Louise put her hand deliberately to thedoor-knob. It gave to her pressure--the door swung open. Some onestumbled out blindly and leaned against the wall for a moment, his handsover his eyes.

  "I can't do it," he said, aloud, "I can't reach the vaults."

  Louise slipped past him and was within the doorway, closely followed bythe frantic Mary.

  The man cried out sharply, and stretched out a detaining hand. "Are youcrazy? Come back!"

  "Mr. Gordon!" cried Louise, with a little sob of relief, "is it reallyyou? Let me go--quick--my note books!"

  A thick cloud of smoke at that moment came rolling down the back stairs.It enveloped them. It went down their throats and made them cough. Theman, throwing an arm over the shoulders of the slender girl who hadstarted up after the first shock of the smoke had passed away, pushedher gently but firmly outside.

  "Don't let her come, Mary," he called back, clearly. "I'll get the notebooks--if I can." Then he was gone--up the smoke-wreathed stairway.

  Outside, the girls waited. It seemed hours. The wind, howling around thecorners, whipped their skirts. There was a colder edge to it. Fire atlast broke out of the back windows simultaneously with the sound ofbreaking glass, and huge billows of released black smoke surged out fromthe new outlet. Louise started forward. She never knew afterward justwhat she meant to do, but she sprang away from Mary's encircling arm andran up the little flight of steps leading to the door from which she hadbeen so unceremoniously thrust. Afterward, when they told her, sherealized what her impulsive action meant, but now she did not think. Shewas only conscious of some wild, vague impulse to fly to the help of theman who would even now be safe in blessed outdoors had it not been forher and her foolish woman's whim. She had sent him to his death. Whatwere those wretched note books--what was anything at all in comparison tohis life! So she stumbled blindly up the steps. The wind had slammed thedoor shut. It was a cruel obstacle to keep her back. She wrenched itopen. The clouds of smoke that met her, rolling out of theirimprisonment like pent up steam, choked her, blinded her, beat her back.She strove impotently against it. She tried to fight it off with herhands--those little intensely feminine hands whose fortune Gordon longedto take upon himself forever and forever. They were so small and weak tofend for themselves. But small as they were, it was a good thing theydid that night. Now Mary had firm hold of her and would not let her go.She struggled desperately and tried to push her off, but vainly, forMary had twice her strength.

  "Mary, I shall never forgive you--"

  She did not finish her sentence, for at that moment Gordon staggered outinto the air. He sat down on the bottom step as if he were drunk, butlittle darts of flame colored the surging smoke here and there in weirdsplotches and, suddenly calm now that there was something to do, Maryand Louise led him away from the doomed building where the keen windsoon blew the choking smoke from his eyes and throat.

  "I've swallowed a ton," he said, recovering himself quickly. "I couldn'tget them, Louise." He did not know he called her so.

  "Oh, what does it matter?" cried Louise, earnestly. "Only forgive me forsending you."

  "As I remember it, I sent myself," said Gordon, with a humorous smile,"and, I am afraid, tumbled one little girl rather unceremoniously downthe stairs. Did I hurt you?" There was a caressing cadence in thequestion that he could not for the life of him keep out of his voice.

  "I did not even know I tumbled. How did you get back?" said Louise,tremulously.

  "Who opened the door?" counter-questioned Gordon, remembering. "The windmust have blown it shut. I was blinded--I couldn't find it--I couldn'tbreathe. I didn't have sense enough to know it was shut, but I couldn'thave helped myself anyway. I groped for it as long as I could withoutbreathing. Then I guess I must have gone off a little, for I wassprawling on the floor of the lower hall when I felt a breath of airplaying over me. Somebody must have opened the door--because I am prettysure I had fainted or done some foolish thing."

  Louise was silent. She was thankful--thankful! God had been very good toher. It had been given to her to do this thing. She had not meant to doit--she had not known what she did; enough that it was done.

  "It was Louise," spoke up Mary, "and I--tried to hold her back!" So sheaccused herself.

  "But I didn't do it on purpose," said Louise, with shining eyes. "I--I--"

  "Yes, you--" prompted Gordon, looking at her with tender intentness.

  "I guess I was trying to come after you," she confessed. "It wasvery--foolish."

  The rear grounds were rapidly filling up. Like children following aband-wagon, the crowd surged toward the new excitement of the discoveredextension of the fire. Gordon drew a long breath.

  "I thank God for your--foolishness," he said, simply, smiling the smilehis friends loved him for.