CHAPTER XV
THE CLAIMS OF DUTY
Half an hour later Joan left the house for the barn.
In that brief space she had lived through one of those swiftly-passingepochs in human life when mind, heart and inclination are brought intosomething approaching actual conflict. But, stern as the fight withweakness had been, she had emerged chastened and victorious.Realization had come to her--realization of whither her troubles hadbeen leading her. She knew she must not abandon herself to theselfishness which her brief rebellion had prompted. She was young,inexperienced, and of a highly-sensitive temperament, but she was notweak. And it was this fact which urged her now. Metaphoricallyspeaking, she had determined to tackle life with shirt sleeves rolledup.
She knew that duty was not only duty, but something which was to yieldher a measure of happiness. She knew, too, that duty was not only tobe regarded from a point of view of its benefit to others. Therewas a duty to oneself--which must not be claimed for the sin ofselfishness--just as surely as to others; that in its thoroughness ofperformance lay the secret of all that was worth having in life, andthat the disobedience of the laws of such duty, the neglect of them,was to outrage the canons of all life's ethics, and to bring down uponthe head of the offender the inevitable punishment.
She must live her life calmly, honestly, whatever the fate hangingover her. That was the first and most important decision she arrivedat. She must not weakly yield to panic inspired by superstitiousdread. To do so was, she felt, to undermine her whole moral being. Shemust ignore this shadow, she must live a life that defied its power.And when the cloud grew too black, if that method were not sufficientto dispel it, she must appeal for alleviation and support from thatPower which would never deny its weak and helpless creatures. She knewthat human endurance of suffering was intended to be limited, and thatwhen that limit was honestly reached support was still waiting for thesufferer.
Thus she left the house in a chastened spirit, and once more full ofyouthful courage. The work, the new life she had chosen for herself,must fill every moment of her waking hours. And somehow she felt thatwith her stern resolve had come a foretaste of that happiness shedemanded of life. Her spirits rose as she neared the barn, and a wildexcitement filled her as she contemplated a minute inspection of herbelongings and her intention to personally minister to their wants.
Something of the instinct of motherhood stirred in her veins at thethought. These were hers to care for--hers to attend and "do" for. Shelaughed as she thought of the family awaiting her. What a family. Yes,why not? These creatures were for the guardianship of the human race.With all their physical might they were helpless dependents on humanaid. Yes, they must be thought for and cared for. They were herfamily. And she laughed again.
The barn was a sturdy building. Nor was it unpicturesque with itssolid, dovetailed lateral logs and heavy thatched roof. She saw thatit was built with the same care and finish as the house that was nowher home. She could not help wondering at the manner of man who haddesigned and built it. She saw in it such deliberateness, such skill.There was nothing here of the slap-dash prairie carpenter she had readof--the man who flung up buildings simply for the needs of the moment.These were buildings that might last for ages and still retain alltheir original weather-proof comfort for the creatures they sheltered.She felt pleased with this man Moreton Kenyon.
She passed round the angle of the building to the doorway, and pausedfor a moment to admire the scheme of the farm. Every building frontedon a largish open space, which was split by the waters of YellowCreek, beyond which lay the corrals. Here was forethought. Theoperative part of the farm was hidden from the house, and every detailof it was adjacent one to another. There was the wagon shed with awagon in it, and harvesting implements stabled in perfect order. Therewere the hog-pens, the chicken-houses; the sheds for milch cows. Therewas the barn and the miniature grain store; then, across the creek, awell, with accompanying drinking-trough, corrals with lowing kine inthem; a branding cage. And beyond these she could see a vista offenced pastures.
As she stood reveling in the survey of her little possession thethought recurred to her that this was hers, all hers. It was the homeof her family, and she laughed still more happily as she passed intothe barn.
Pushing the door open she found herself greeted in the half-light by achorus of equine whinnying such as she had never before experienced,and the sound thrilled her. There stood the team of great Clydesdalehorses, their long, fiddle heads turned round staring at her withsoftly inquiring eyes. She wanted to cry out in her joy, but,restraining herself, walked up beside the nearest of them and pattedits glossy sides. Her touch was a caress which more than gaveexpression to her delight.
Those were precious moments to Joan. They were so precious, indeed,that she quite forgot the purpose which had brought her there. Sheforgot that it was hers to tend and feed these great, helplesscreatures. It was enough for her to sit on the swinging bail betweenthe stalls, and revel in the gentle nuzzling of two velvety noses. Inthose first moments her sensations were unforgettable. The joy of itall held her in its thrall, and, for the moment at least, there wasnothing else in the world.
The moments passed unheeded. Every sound was lost to her. And so itcame about that she did not hear the galloping of a horse approaching.She did not hear it come to a halt near by. She did not even noticethe figure that presently filled the doorway. And only did her firstrealization of the intrusion come with the pleasant sound of a man'sdeep voice.
"Bob an' Kitty's kind o' friendly, Miss Joan," it said.
The girl turned with a jump and found herself confronted by Buck'ssmiling face. And oddly enough her first flash of thought was thatthis man had used her own name, and not her nickname, and she wasgrateful to him.
Then she saw that he had the fork in his hand with which she had firstseen him, and she remembered his overnight promise to do those verythings for her which she had set out to do, but, alas! had forgottenall about.
His presence became a reproach at once, and a slight pucker ofdispleasure drew her even brows together.
"You're very kind," she began, "but----"
Buck's smile broadened.
"'But's' a ter'ble word," he said. "It most always goes ahead ofsomething unpleasant." He quietly laid the fork aside, and, gatheringan armful of hay, proceeded to fill Kitty's manger. "Now whatyou wer' going to say was something like that old--I mean yourhousekeeper--said, only you wouldn't say it so mean. You jest want tosay I'm not to git around doing the chores here for the reason youcan't accept favors, an' you don't guess it would be right to offer mepay, same as a 'hired' man."
He hayed Bob's manger, and then loosened both horses' collar chains.
"If you'll sit on the oat-box I'll turn 'em round an' take 'em towater at the trough. That's it."
Joan obeyed him without a word, and the horses were led out. And whilethey were gone the girl was left to an unpleasant contemplation of thesituation. She determined to deal with the matter boldly, however, andbegan the moment he returned.
"You're quite right, Mr. Buck," she began.
"Buck--jest plain Buck," he interrupted her. "But I hadn't jestfinished," he went on deliberately. "I want to show you how you can'tdo those things the old--your housekeeper was yearnin' to do. Y' see,you can't get a 'hired' man nearer than Leeson Butte. You can't gethim in less'n two weeks. You can't do the chores yourself, an' thatold--your housekeeper ain't fit to do anything but make hash. Then youcan't let the stock go hungry. Besides all of which you're doing me areal kindness letting me help you out. Ther's no favor to you. It'ssure to me, an' these creatures which can't do things for themselves.So it would be a sound proposition to cut that 'but' right out of ourtalk an' send word to your lawyer feller in Leeson Butte for a 'hired'man. An' when he gits around, why--well, you won't be needin' me."
All the time he was speaking his fork was busy clearing the stalls oftheir litter, and, at the finish, he leant on the haft of it andquizzically smiled into the girl
's beautiful, half-troubled face.
Joan contemplated protesting, but somehow his manner was so friendly,so frank and honest, that she felt it would be ungracious of her.Finally he won the day, and she broke into a little laugh of yielding.
"You talk too--too well for me," she cried. "I oughtn't to accept,"she added. "I know I oughtn't, but what am I to do? I can't do--thesethings." Then she added regretfully: "And I thought it would be all sosimple."
Buck saw her disappointment, and it troubled him. He felt in a measureresponsible, so he hastened to make amends.
"Wal, y' see, men are rough an' strong. They can do the things neededaround a farm. I don't guess women wer' made for--for the rough workof life. It ain't a thing to feel mean about. It's jest in the natureof things."
Joan nodded. All the time he was speaking she had been studying him,watching the play of expression upon his mobile features rather thanpaying due attention to his words.
She decided that she liked the look of him. It was not that hewas particularly handsome. He seemed so strong, and yet so--sounconcerned. She wondered if that were only his manner. She knew thatoften volcanic natures, reckless, were hidden under a perfect calm.She wondered if it were so in his case. His eyes were so full of abrilliant dark light. Yes, surely this man roused might be aninteresting personality. She remembered him last night. She rememberedthe strange, superheated fire in those same eyes when he had hurledthe gold at her feet. Yes, she felt sure a tremendous force lay behindhis calmness of manner.
The man's thoughts were far less analytical. His was not the nature tosearch the psychology of a beautiful girl. To him Joan was the mostwonderful thing on earth. She was something to be reverenced, to beworshipped. His imagination, fired by all his youthful impulse,endowed her with every gift that the mind of simple manhood couldconceive, every virtue, every beauty of mind as well as body.
Joan watched him for some moments as he continued his work. It waswonderful how easy he made it seem, how quickly it was done. She evenfound herself regretting that in a few minutes the morning "chores"would be finished, and this man would be away to--where?
"You must have been up very early to get over here," she saiddesignedly. Her girlish curiosity and interest could no longer bedenied. She must find out what he was and what he did for a living.
"I'm mostly up early," he replied simply.
"Yes, of course. But--you have your own--stock to see to?"
She felt quite pleased with her cunning. But her pleasure wasshort-lived.
"Sure," he returned, with disarming frankness.
"It really doesn't seem fair that you should have the double work,"she went on, with another attempt to penetrate his reserve.
Buck's smile was utterly baffling. He walked to the door of the barnand gave a prolonged, low whistle. Then he came back.
"It sure wouldn't be fair if I didn't," he said simply.
"But you must have heaps to do on your--farm," Joan went on, feelingthat she was on the right track at last "Look at what you're doing forme. These horses, the cattle, the--the pigs and things. I've no doubtyou have much more to see to of your own."
At that moment the head of Caesar appeared in the doorway. He staredround the familiar stable evidently searching for his master. Finallycatching sight of him, he clattered in to the place and rubbed hishandsome head against Buck's shoulder.
"This is my stock," Buck said, affectionately rubbing the creature'snose. "An' I generally manage to see to him while the kettle's boilin'for breakfast."
Just for a moment Joan felt abashed at her deliberate attempt to pumpher companion. Then the quick, inquiring survey of the beautiful horsewas too much for her, and she left her seat to join in the caresses.
"Isn't he a beauty?" she cried, smoothing his silken face from thestar on his forehead to the tip of his wide muzzle.
Just for a second her hand came into contact with the man's, and, allunconscious, she let it remain. Then suddenly realizing the positionshe drew it away rather sharply.
Buck made no move, but had she only looked up she must have noted thesudden pallor of his face. That brief touch, so unconscious, sounmeaning, had again set his pulses hammering through his body. And ithad needed all his control to repress the fiery impulse that stirredhim. He longed to kiss that soft white hand. He longed to take it inhis own strong palms and hold it for his own, to keep it forever. Butthe moment passed, and when he spoke it was in the same pleasant, easyfashion.
"I kind o' thought I ought to let him go with the farm," he said,"only the Padre wouldn't think of it. He'd have made a dandy fellerfor you to ride."
But Joan was up in arms in a moment.
"I'd never have forgiven you if you'd parted with him," she cried."He's--he's perfectly beautiful."
Buck nodded.
"He's a good feller." And his tone said far more than his words.
He led the beast to the door, and, giving him an affectionate slap,sent him trotting off.
"I must git busy," he said, with a laugh. "The hay needs cuttin'.Guess I'll cut till dinner. After that I've got to quit till sundown.I'll go right on cuttin' each mornin' till your 'hired' man comesalong. Y' see if it ain't cut now we'll be too late. I'll just throwthe harness on Kitty an' Bob an' leave 'em to git through with theirfeed while I see the hogs fed. Guess that old--your housekeeper canmilk? I ran the cows into the corral as I came up. Seems to me shecould do most things she got fixed on doing."
Joan laughed.
"She was 'fixed' on sending you about what she called 'yourbusiness,'" she said slyly.
Buck raised his brows in mock chagrin.
"Guess she succeeded, too. I sure got busy right away--until you comealong, and--and got me quittin'."
"Oh!" Joan stared at him with round eyes of reproach. Then she burstout laughing. "Well, now you shall hear the truth for that, and you'llhave to answer me too, Mr. Buck."
"Buck--jest plain Buck."
The girl made an impatient little movement.
"Well, then, 'Buck.' I simply came along to thank you, and to tell youthat I couldn't allow your help--except as a 'hired' man. And--I'mafraid you'll think me very curious--I came to find out who you were,and how you came to find me and bring me home here. And--and I wantedto know--well, everything about my arrival. And you--you've made itall very difficult. You--insist on doing all this for me.You're--you're not so kind as I thought."
Joan's complaint was made half-laughingly and half-seriously. Buck sawthe reality underlying her words, but determined to ignore it and onlyanswer her lighter manner.
"If you'd only asked me these things I'd have told you right away," heprotested, smiling. "Y' see you never asked me."
"I--I was trying to," Joan said feebly.
Buck paused in the act of securing Kitty's harness.
"That old--your housekeeper wouldn't ha' spent a deal of time trying,"he said dryly.
Joan ignored the allusion.
"I don't believe you intend to tell me now," she said.
Buck left the stall and stood before the corn-box. His eyes were stillsmiling though his manner was tremendously serious.
"You're wantin' to know who I am," he said. Then he paused, glancingout of the doorway, and the girl watched the return of that thoughtfulexpression which she had come to associate with his usual manner."Wal," he said at last, in his final way, "I'm Buck, and I was pickedup on the trail-side, starving, twenty years ago by the Padre. He'sraised me, an' we're big friends. An' now, since we sold his farm,we're living at the old fur fort, back ther' in the hills, and we'regoin' to get a living pelt hunting. I've got no folks, an' no nameexcept Buck. I was called Buck. All I can remember is that my folkswere farmers, but got burnt out in a prairie fire, and--burnt todeath. That's why I was on the trail starving when the Padre foundme."
Joan's eyes had softened with a gentle sympathy, but she offered noword.
"'Bout the other," the man went on, turning back to the girl, andletting his eyes rest on her fair face, "that's easy,
too. I was atthe shack of the boys in the storm. You come along an' wer' lyingright ther' on the door-sill when I found you. I jest carried youright here. Y' see, I guessed who you wer'. Your cart was wrecked onthe bank o' the creek----"
"And the teamster?" Joan's eyes were eagerly appealing.
Buck turned away.
"Oh, guess he was ther' too." Then he abruptly moved toward thehorses. "Say, I'll get on an' cut that hay."
Joan understood. She knew that the teamster was dead. She sigheddeeply, and as the sound reached him Buck looked round. It was on thetip of his tongue to say some word of comfort, for he knew that Joanhad understood that the man was dead, but the girl herself, under theinfluence of her new resolve, made it unnecessary. She rose from herseat, and her manner suggested a forced lightness.
"I'll go and feed the chickens," she said. "I--I ought to be capableof doing that."
Buck smiled as he prepared to go and see to the hogs.
"Guess you won't have trouble--if you know what to give 'em," he said.
Nor was he quite sure if the girl were angry or smiling as she hurriedout of the barn.
The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Page 15
