CHAPTER XXI
THE MOVING SHADOW
"I'd rather not talk about it to-night. I'm not equal to it.It's--too--too it's devilish, Paul. I don't seem to be able to grasp it. Ican't think about it with any coherence. I was so sure--so sure."
Gordon was staring moodily out of the window, one arm hanging idly overthe back of his chair. He had taken up office room in an empty shopbuilding across the street from the hotel.
"It's so devilish, it's weird," agreed the ranchman. "But your part wasgreat. You vanquished Jesse Black. That is more than we hoped for a weekago. Is it your fault or mine that those fool deputies acted like fliesin tangle-foot and went spraddle-fingered when something was expected ofthem? We have nothing to do with a little thing like a brokenwindowpane."
There was an ugly cut on his forehead caused by his violent contact withthe sharp edge of the window casing. He was pale, but he had lost noneof the old faith in himself or in his power to dominate affairs in thecattle country. Defeat was intolerable to him. He refused to bow hishead to it. To-day's check only made him the more determined, if thatwere possible, to free the land of its shame.
"I'll pull myself together again, never fear," said Gordon. "Just giveme to-night. You see that's not all. I've something else to think about,too, now that I have time. It takes a fellow's nerve away to haveeverything that is worth while drop out at once. But I've ralliedbefore. I know I'm beastly selfish not to talk to you to-night, but--"
"Dick," interrupted Langford, bluntly, "did she turn you down?"
"I never asked her. She is going back--home--next week."
"If you let her."
"You don't quite understand, Paul," said Gordon, a little wearily. "Shesaid she could never live in this country--never. She would die here.Could I ask her after that? Could I ask her anyway, and be a man? Iknow. She would just pine away."
"Girls don't pine--only in imagination. They are tougher than you givethem credit for."
"But somehow, Mary seems different," said Gordon, thoughtfully. Hesurprised a flush in his friend's cheek. "You deserve her, old man,you'll be very happy. She is the right kind. I congratulate you with allmy heart."
An odd lump came into Langford's throat. Despite Gordon's vigorous andhealthful manhood, there seemed always a certain pathos of lifesurrounding him.
"I haven't asked, either," confessed Paul. "But you have made itpossible for me to do so--to-night--to-morrow--whenever I can find achance. Take my advice, old man, don't let your girl go. You'll find sheis the kind after all. You don't know her yet."
Paul left the room, and Gordon paced the narrow confines of his shabbyoffice--back and forth--many times. Then he threw himself once more intohis chair. The hours were long. He had all night to think about things.When morning came, all his weakness would be over. No one should everagain see him so unmanned as Paul had seen him to-night And when Louiseshould go--his arms fell nervelessly to the table. He remained thus amoment, his eyes fixed and unseeing, and then his head dropped heavilyupon his arms.
Alone in the night, Louise awoke. She found it impossible to fall asleepagain. She was nervous. It must be something in the atmosphere. Shetossed and tossed and flounced and flounced. She counted up tothousands. She made her mind a blank so often that she flew to thinkingto escape the emptiness of it. Still her eyes were wide and her mindfairly a-quiver with activity. She slipped out of bed. She would tireherself into sleep. She even dressed. She would show herself. If shemust be a midnight prowler, she would wear the garments people affectwhen they have their thoughts and energies fixed on matters mundane.Drawing the oil stove close to the window fronting the street, she sankinto a chair, drew a heavy shawl over her shoulders, put her feet on thetiny fender, and prepared to fatigue herself into oblivion.
A light shone from the window across the way. He was still at work,then. He ought not to sit up so late. No wonder he was looking so wornout lately. He ought to have some one to look after him. He neverthought of himself. He never had time. She would talk to him aboutkeeping such late hours--if she were not going back to God's country nextweek. Only next week! It was too good to be true,--and yet she sighed.But there was no other way. She ought never to have come. She was notbig enough. He, too, had told her she was not the kind. Doubtless, heknew. And she didn't belong to anybody here. She was glad she was goingback to where she belonged to somebody. She would never go away again.
Was that Gordon passing back and forth in front of the window? Somethingmust be troubling him. Was it because Jesse Black had escaped? But whata glorious vindication of his belief in the man's guilt had thatafternoon been given! Nothing lacked there. Why should he be sorry?Sometimes, she had thought he might care,--that day crossing the riverfor instance; but he was so reserved--he never said--and it was much, muchbetter that he did not care, now that she was going away and would nevercome back. There was nothing in all the world that could make her comeback to this big, bleak, lonesome land where she belonged to nobody. Butshe was sorry for him. He looked sad and lonely. He didn't belong toanybody here, either, yet he wasn't going to run away as she was. Well,but he was a man, and men were different.
And now she noticed that his head had sunk down onto his arms. How stillhe sat! The minutes passed away. Still he sat motionless, his faceburied.
It was dark. The yellow gleam streaming out of the window only served tomake the surrounding darkness denser. The lamp on the table cast a palecircle immediately in front of the office. There was no other flicker oflight on the street. Into this circle there moved a shadow. Itretreated,--advanced again,--glided back into obscurity. Was it somethingalive, or did the moving of the lamp cause the shadows to thus skipabout? But the lamp had not been moved. It burned steadily in the sameposition. The relaxed form of the unconscious man was still bent overthe table. Nothing had changed within. Probably some dog locked out forthe night had trotted within the radius of light. Maybe a cotton-tailhad hopped into the light for a second. Louise did not know whetherrabbits ever came into the town, but it was likely they did. It mighthave been one of the strayed cattle wandering about in search of food.That was the most probable supposition of all. Of course it might havebeen only her imagination. The little pinch of fright engendered of themoving shadow and the eerie hour passed away. Her eyes grew pensiveagain. How still it was! Had Gordon fallen asleep? He lay so quietly.Had he grieved himself into slumber as a girl would do? No--men were notlike that.
Ah! There was the moving shadow again! She caught her breath quickly.Then her eyes grew wide and fixed with terror. This time the shadow didnot slink away again. It came near the window, crouching. Suddenly, itstood up straight. Merciful Father! Why is it that a human being, acreature of reason and judgment, prowling about at unnatural hours,inspires ten-fold more terror to his kind than does a brute in likecircumstances of time and place? Louise tried to scream aloud. Herthroat was parched. A sudden paralysis held her speechless. It was likea nightmare. She writhed and fought desperately to shake herself free ofthis dumb horror. The cold damp came out on her forehead. Afterward sheremembered that she knew the man and that it was this knowledge that hadcaused her nightmare of horror to be so unspeakably dreadful. Now shewas conscious only of the awfulness of not being able to cry out. If shecould only awaken Mary! The man lifted his arm. He had something in hishand. Its terrible import broke the spell of her speechlessness.
"Mary! Mary!"
She thought she shrieked. In reality, she gasped out a broken whisper;but it thrilled so with terror and pleading that Mary was awakened onthe instant. She sprang out of bed. As her feet touched the floor, apistol shot rang out, close by. She had been trained to quick action,and superb health left no room for cobwebs to linger in the brain whenshe was suddenly aroused. She had no need for explanations. The shot wasenough. If more was needed, there was the lighted window across the wayand here was Louise crouched before their own. Swiftly and silently, sheseized her revolver from the bureau, glided to the window, and firedthree times in rapid successio
n, the reports mingling with the sound ofshattered glass.
"I think I hit him the second time, Louise," she said, with a dull calm."I can't be sure."
She lighted a lamp and began to dress mechanically. Louise stayed not toanswer. In the hall, she encountered Paul Langford, just as another shotrang out.
"Go back, Miss Dale," he cried, hurriedly but peremptorily. "You mustn'tcome. I am afraid there has been foul play."
She looked at him. It hurt, that look.
"He is dead," she whispered, "I am going to him," and glided away fromhis detaining hand.
He hurried after her. Others had been aroused by the nearness of thepistol shots. Doors were thrown open. Voices demanded the meaning of thedisturbance. Putting his arm around the trembling girl, Langfordhastened across the street with her. At the door of Gordon's office, hepaused.
"I will go in first, Louise. You stay here."
He spoke authoritatively; but she slipped in ahead of him. Her arms fellsoftly over the bowed shoulders. Her cheek dropped to the dark,gray-streaked hair. There was little change, seemingly. The form wasonly a little more relaxed, the attitude only a little more helpless. Itseemed as if he might have been sleeping. There was a sound, a faintdrip, drip, drip, in the room. It was steady, monotonous, like dropsfalling, from rain pipes after the storm is over. Langford opened thedoor.
"Doc! Doc Lockhart! Some one send Doc over here quick! Gordon's office!Be quick about it!" he cried, in a loud, firm voice. Then he closed thedoor and locked it. In response to his call, footsteps were heardrunning. The door was tried. Then came loud knocking and voicesdemanding admittance.
"No one can come in but Doc," cried Langford through the keyhole. "Sendhim quick, somebody, for God's sake! Where's Jim Munson? He'll get himhere. Quick, I tell you!"
He hastened back to the side of his friend and passed his hand gentlyover the right side to find the place whence came that heartbreakingdrip. Disappointed in their desire to get in, men crowded before thewindow. Louise stepped softly forward and drew the blind between him andthe mass of curious faces without. She was very pale, but quiet andself-possessed. She had rallied when Langford had whispered to her thatGordon's heart was still beating. The doctor rapped loudly, calling toLangford to open. Paul admitted him and then stepped out in full sightof all, his hand still on the knob. The late moon was just rising. Afaint light spread out before him.
"Boys," he cried, a great grief in his stern voice, "it's murder. DickGordon's murdered. Now get--you know what for--and be quick about it!"
They laid him gently on the floor, took off his coat, and cut away theblood soaked shirts. Louise assisted with deft, tender hands. Presently,the heavy lids lifted, the gray eyes stared vacantly for a moment--thensmiled. Paul bent over him.
"What happened, old man?" the wounded man whispered gropingly. Itrequired much effort to say this little, and a shadow of pain fell overhis face.
"Hush, Dick, dear boy," said Langford, with a catch in his voice."You're all right now, but you mustn't talk. You're too weak. We aregoing to move you across to the hotel."
"But what happened?" he insisted.
"You were shot, you know, Dick. Keep quiet, now! I'm going for astretcher."
"Am I done for?" the weak voice kept on. But there was no fear in it.
"You will be if you keep on talking like that"
Obeying a sign from the doctor, he slipped away and out. Gordon closedhis eyes and was still for a long time. His face was white and drawnwith suffering.
"Has he fainted?" whispered Louise.
The eyes opened quickly. They fell upon Louise, who had not time to drawaway. The shadow of the old, sweet smile came and hovered around hislips.
"Louise," he whispered.
"Yes, it is I," she said, laying her hand lightly on his forehead. "Youmust be good until Paul gets back."
"I'm done for, so the rest of the criminal calendar will have to goover. You can go back to--God's country--sooner than you thought."
"I am not going back to--God's country," said Louise, unexpectedly. Shehad not meant to say it, but she meant it when she said it.
"Come here, close to me, Louise," said Gordon, in a low voice. He hadforgotten the doctor. "You had better--I'll get up if you don't. Closerstill. I want you to--kiss me before Paul gets back."
Louise grew whiter. She glanced hesitatingly at the doctor, timidly atthe new lover in the old man. Then she bent over him where he laystretched on the floor and kissed him on the lips. A great light cameinto his eyes before he closed them contentedly and slipped intounconsciousness again.
Langford rounded up Jim Munson and sent him across with a stretcher, andthen ran up stairs for an extra blanket off his own bed. It was bitterlycold, and Dick must be well wrapped. On the upper landing, heencountered Mary alone. Something in her desolate attitude stopped him.
"What's the matter, Mary," he demanded, seizing her hands.
"Nothing," she answered, dully. "How is he?"
"All right, I trust and pray, but hurt terribly, wickedly."
He did not quite understand. Did she love Gordon? Was that why shelooked so heart-broken? Taking her face in his two hands, he compelledher to look at him straight.
"Now tell me," he said.
"Did I kill him?" she asked.
"Kill whom?"
"Why, him--Jesse Black."
Then he understood.
"Mary, my girl, was it you? Were those last shots yours?" All theriotous love in him trembled on his tongue.
"Did I?" she persisted.
"God grant you did," he said, solemnly. "There is blood outside thewindow, but he is gone."
"I don't like to kill people," she said, brokenly. "Why do I always haveto do it?"
He drew her to him strongly and held her close against his breast.
"You are the bravest and best girl on earth," he said. "My girl,--you aremy girl, you know,--hereafter I will do all necessary killing for--mywife."
He kissed the sweet, quivering lips as he said it.
Some one came running up the stairs, and stopped suddenly in front ofthe two in the passage.
"Why, Jim!" cried Langford in surprise. "I thought you had gone with thestretcher."
"I did go," said Jim, swallowing hard. He shifted nervously from onespurred foot to the other. "But I came back."
He looked at Langford beseechingly.
"Boss, I want to see you a minute, ef--Mary don't mind."
"I will come with you, Jim, now," said Langford with quick apprehension.
"Mary,"--Jim turned away and stared unseeingly down the staircase,--"goback to your room for a little while. I will call for you soon. Keep upyour courage."
"Wait," said Mary, quietly. There were unsounded depths of despair inher voice, though it was so clear and low. "There was another shot. Iremember now. Jim, tell me!"
Jim turned. The rough cowboy's eyes were wet--for the first time in manya year.
"They--hope he won't die, Mary, girl. Your father's shot bad, but heain't dead. We think Black did it after he run from Gordon's office. Wefound him on the corner."
Langford squared his broad shoulders--then put strong, protecting armsaround Mary. Now was he her all.
"Come, my darling, we will go to him together."
She pushed him from her violently.
"I will go alone. Why should you come? He is mine. He is all Ihave--there is no one else. Why don't you go? You are big andstrong--can't you make that man suffer for my father's murder? Jim, takeme to him."
She seized the cowboy's arm, and they went out together, and on down thestairs.
Langford stood still a moment, following them with his eyes. His facewas white. He bent his head. Jim, looking back, saw him thus, the dulllight from the hall-lamp falling upon the bent head and the yellow hair.When Langford raised his head, his face, though yet white, bore anexpression of concentrated determination.
He, too, strode quickly down the stairs.
Langford of the Three Bars Page 21
