The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXV

  BUCK LAUGHS AT FATE

  The telling of the Padre's story cost Buck a wakeful night. It was notthat he had any doubts either of the truth of the story, or of hisfriend. He needed no evidence to convince him of either. Or rather,such was his nature that no evidence could have broken his faith andfriendship. Strength and loyalty were the key-note of his whole life.To him the Padre was little less than a god, in whom nothing couldshake his belief. He honored him above all men in the world, and, suchas it was, his own life, his strength, his every nerve, were at hisservice. Moreover, it is probable that his loyalty would have been nowhit the less had the man pleaded guilty to the crime he was accusedof.

  No, it was not the story he had listened to which kept him wakeful. Itwas not the rights or wrongs, or the significance of it, that inspiredhis unrest. It was something of a far more personal note.

  It was the full awakening of a mind and heart to a true understandingof themselves. And the manner of his awakening had been little shortof staggering. He loved, and his love had risen up before his eyes ina manner the full meaning of which he had only just realized. It washis friend who had brought about his awakening, his friend who had putinto brief words that which had been to him nothing but a deliciousdream.

  The man's words rang through his brain the night long.

  "Why? Why?" they said. "Because you love this little Joan, daughter ofmy greatest friend. Because I owe it to you--to her, to face myaccusers and prove my innocence."

  That brief passionate declaration had changed the whole outlook of hislife. The old days, the old thoughts, the old unexpressed feelings andhazy ambitions had gone--swept away in one wave of absorbing passion.There was neither future nor past to him now. He lived in the thoughtof this woman's delightful presence, and beyond that he could seenothing.

  Vaguely he knew that much must lay before him. The past, well, thatwas nothing. He understood that the drift of life's stream could nolonger carry him along without his own effort at guidance. He knewthat somewhere beyond this dream a great battle of Life lay waitingfor his participation. He felt that henceforth he was one of thosestruggling units he had always regarded as outside his life. And allbecause of this wonderful sunlight of love which shone deep into theremotest cells of brain and heart. He felt strong for whatever laybefore him. This perfect sunshine, so harmonious with every feeling,thrilled him with a virile longing to go out and proclaim his defianceagainst the waiting hordes in Life's eternal battle. No road could beso rough as to leave him shrinking, no fight so fierce that he was notconfident of victory, no trouble so great that it could not be bornewith perfect cheerfulness. As he had awakened to love so had heawakened to life, yearning and eager.

  As the long night wore on his thought became clearer, more definite.So that before his eyes closed at last in a broken slumber he came tomany decisions for the immediate future. The greatest, the mostmomentous of these was that he must see Joan again without delay. Hetried to view this in perfect coolness, but though the decisionremained with him the fever of doubt and despair seized him, and hebecame the victim of every fear known to the human lover's heart. Tohim who had never known the meaning of fear his dread became tenfoldappalling. He must see her--and perhaps for the last time in his life.This interview might well terminate once and for all every thought ofearthly happiness, and fling him back upon the meagre solace of awilderness, which now, without Joan, would be desolation indeed.

  Yet he knew that the chances must be faced now and at once. Forhimself he would probably have delayed, rather basking in the sunshineof uncertainty than risk witnessing the swift gathering clouds whichmust rob him of all light forever. But he was not thinking only ofhimself. There was that other, that white-haired, lonely man who hadsaid, "Because you love this little Joan."

  The wonderful unselfishness of the Padre had a greater power to stirBuck's heart than any other appeal. His sacrifice must not bepermitted without a struggle. He knew the man, and he knew how uselessmere objection would be. Therefore his duty lay plain before him. Joanmust decide, and on her decision must his plans all be founded. He hadno reason to hope for a return of his love. On the contrary, it seemedabsurd even to hope, and in such an event then the Padre's sacrificewould be unnecessary. If on the other hand--but he dared not let thethought take shape. All he knew was that with Joan at his side nopower of law should touch one single white hair of the Padre's head,while the breath of life remained in his body.

  It was a big thought in the midst of the most selfish of humanpassions. It was a thought so wide, that, in every aspect, it spoke ofthe great world which had been this man's lifelong study. It told ofsublime lessons well learned. Of a mind and heart as big, and broad,and loyal as was the book from which the lessons had been studied.

  With the morning light came a further steadiness of decision. But withit also came an added apprehension, and lack of mental peace. Theworld was radiant about him with the wonder of his love, but hishorizon was lost in a mist of uncertainty and even dread.

  The morning dragged as such intervening hours ever drag, but at lengththey were done with, and the momentous time arrived. Neither he northe Padre had referred again to their talk. That was their way. Nordid any question pass between them until Caesar stood saddled beforethe door.

  The Padre was leaning against the door casing with his pipe in hismouth. His steady eyes were gravely thoughtful.

  "Where you making this afternoon?" he inquired, as Buck swung into thesaddle.

  Buck nodded in the direction of Joan's home.

  "The farm."

  The Padre's eyes smiled kindly.

  "Good luck," he said. And Buck nodded his thanks as he rode away.

  But Buck's outward calm was studied. For once in his life hisconfidence had utterly failed him. He rode over the trail in a dazedcondition which left him almost hopeless by the time he reached thefamiliar corrals of the girl's home. As a consequence he reducedCaesar's pace to a walk with something almost childlike in his desireto postpone what he now felt must be his farewell to the wonderfuldream that had been his.

  But even at a walk the journey must come to an end. In his case itcame all too soon for his peace of mind, and, to his added disquiet,he found himself at the door of the old barn. Just for one moment hehesitated. Then he lightly dropped to the ground. The next moment thehorse itself had taken the initiative. With none of its master'sscruples it clattered into the barn, and, walking straight into itsold familiar stall, commenced to search in the corners of the mangerfor the sweet-scented hay usually awaiting it.

  The lead was irresistible to the man. He followed the creature in,removed its bridle and loosened the cinchas of the saddle. Then hewent out in search of hay.

  His quest occupied several minutes. But finally he returned with anample armful and filled up the manger. Then came upon him a furtheravalanche of doubt, and he stood beside his horse, stupidly smoothingthe beautiful creature's warm, velvet neck while it nuzzled itsfodder.

  "Why--is that you, Buck?"

  The exclamation startled the man out of his reverie and set his pulseshammering madly. He turned to behold Joan framed in the doorway. For amoment he stared stupidly at her, his dark eyes almost fearful. Thenhis answer came quietly, distinctly, and without a tremor to betraythe feelings which really stirred him.

  "It surely is," he said. Then he added, "I didn't know I was comingalong when you were up at the fort yesterday."

  But Joan was thinking only how glad she was of his coming. Hisexplanation did not matter in the least. She had been home from thecamp something over an hour, and had seen some one ride up to the barnwithout recognizing Buck or the familiar Caesar. So she had hastened toinvestigate. Something of her gladness at sight of him was in themanner of her greeting now, and Buck's despondency began to fall fromhim as he realized her unfeigned pleasure.

  "I'm so glad you came," Joan went on impulsively. "So glad, so glad.I've been in camp to order things for--for my aunt's coming. You knowyour Pa
dre told me to send for her. I mailed the letter this morning."

  "You--sent for your aunt?"

  In a moment the whole hideous position of the Padre came upon him,smothering all his own personal feelings, all his pleasure, all hisdoubts and fears.

  "Why--yes." Joan's eyes opened wide in alarm. "Have I done wrong? Hesaid, send for her."

  Buck shook his head and moved out of the stall.

  "You sure done dead right. The Padre said it."

  "Then what was the meaning in your--what you said?"

  Buck smiled.

  "Nothing--just nothing."

  Joan eyed him a moment in some doubt. Then she passed the matter over,and again the pleasure at his coming shone forth.

  "Oh, Buck," she cried, "there are some mean people in the world. I'vebeen talking to that horror, Beasley. He is a horror, isn't he? He'sbeen telling me something of the talk of the camp. He's been tellingme how--how popular I am," she finished up with a mirthless laugh.

  "Popular? I--I don't get you."

  Buck's whole expression had changed at the mention of Beasley's name.Joan had no reason to inquire his opinion of the storekeeper.

  "You wouldn't," she hastened on. "You could never understand suchwicked meanness as that man is capable of. I'm sure he hates me, andonly told me these--these things to make me miserable. And I wasfeeling so happy, too, after seeing your Padre," she addedregretfully.

  "An' what are the things he's been sayin'?"

  Buck's jaws were set.

  "Oh, I can't tell you what he said, except--except that the men thinkI'm responsible for the death of those two. The other things were tooawful. It seems I'm--I'm the talk of the camp in--in an awful way. Hesays they hate me. But I believe it's simply him. You see, he's triedto--to ingratiate himself with me--oh, it's some time back, andI--well, I never could stand him, after that time when the boys gaveme the gold. I wish they had never given me that gold. He stillpersists it's unlucky, and I--I'm beginning to think so, too."

  "Did he--insult you?" Buck asked sharply, ignoring the rest.

  Joan looked quickly into the man's hot eyes, and in that momentrealized the necessity for prudence. The fierce spirit was shiningthere. That only partly tamed spirit, which made her so glad when shethought of it.

  "Oh, no," she said. "It wasn't that he insulted me. No--no. Don'tthink that. Only he went out of his way to tell me these things, tomake me miserable. I was angry then, but I've got over it now. It--itdoesn't matter. You see I just told you because--because----"

  "If that man insulted you, I'd--kill him!"

  Buck had drawn nearer to her. His tall figure was leaning forward, andhis eyes, so fiercely alight, burned down into hers in a manner thathalf frightened her, yet carried with it a feeling that thrilled herheart with an almost painful delight. There was something so magneticin this man's outburst, something so sweeping to her responsivenature. It was almost as though he had taken her in his two stronghands and made her yield obedience to his dominating will. It gave hera strange and wonderful confidence. It made her feel as if this powerof his must possess the same convincing strength for the rest of theworld. That he must sway all who came into contact with him. Hergladness at his visit increased. It was good to feel that he was nearat hand.

  But her woman's mind sought to restrain him.

  "Please--please don't talk like that," she said, in a tone thatcarried no real conviction. "No, Beasley would not dare insult me--forhimself."

  The girl drew back to the oat-box, and seated herself. Buck's momentof passion had brought a deep flush to his cheeks, and his dark eyesmoved restlessly.

  "Why did you tell me?"

  There was no escaping the swift directness of this man's mind. Hisquestion came with little less force than had been his threat againstBeasley. He was still lashed by his thought of the wretchedsaloon-keeper.

  But Joan had no answer ready. Why had she told him? She knew. She knewin a vague sort of way. She had told him because she had been sure ofhis sympathy. She had told him because she knew his strength, and tolean on that always helped her. Without questioning herself, or herfeelings, she had come to rely upon him in all things.

  But his sharp interrogation had given her pause. She repeated hisquestion to herself, and somehow found herself avoiding his gaze.Somehow she could give him no answer.

  Buck chafed for a moment in desperate silence. He turned his hot eyestoward the door, and stared out at the distant hills. Caesar rattledhis collar chain, and scattered the hay in his search for the choicestmorsels. The heavy draft horses were slumbering where they stood.Presently the man's eyes came back to the girl, devouring the beautyof her still averted face.

  "Say," he went on presently, "you never felt so that your head wouldburst, so that the only thing worth while doin' would be to kill someone?" He smiled. "That's how I feel, when I know Beasley's beentalkin' to you."

  Joan turned to him with a responsive smile. She was glad he wastalking again. A strange discomfort, a nervousness not altogetherunpleasant had somehow taken hold of her, and the sound of his voicerelieved her.

  She shook her head.

  "No," she said frankly. "I--don't think I ever feel that way. But Idon't like Beasley."

  Buck's heat had passed. He laughed.

  "That was sure a fool question to ask," he said. "Say, it 'ud be likeaskin' a dove to get busy with a gun."

  "I've heard doves are by no means the gentle creatures popular beliefwould have them."

  "Guess ther's doves--an' doves," Buck said enigmatically. "I can'tjest see you bustin' to hurt a fly."

  "Not even Beasley?"

  Joan laughed slily.

  But Buck ignored the challenge. He stirred restlessly. He thrust hisfingers into the side pockets of the waist-coat he wore hanging open.He withdrew them, and shifted his feet. Then, with a sudden, impatientmovement, he thrust his slouch hat back from his forehead.

  "Guess I can't say these things right," he gulped out with a swift,impulsive rush. "What I want to say is that's how I feel when anythinghappens amiss your way. I want to say it don't matter if it's Beasley,or--or jest things that can't be helped. I want to get around and set'em right for you----"

  Joan's eyes were startled. A sudden pallor had replaced the smile onher lips, and drained the rich, warm color from her cheeks.

  "You've always done those things for me, Buck," she interrupted himhastily. "You've been the kindest--the best----"

  "Don't say those things," Buck broke in with a hardly restrainedpassion. "It hurts to hear 'em. Kindest? Best? Say, when a man feelssame as me, words like them hurt, hurt right in through here," hetapped his chest with an awkward gesture. "They drive a man nighcrazy. A man don't want to hear them from the woman he loves. Yes,loves!"

  The man's dark eyes were burning, and as the girl rose from her seathe reached out one brown hand to detain her. But his gesture wasneedless. She made no move to go. She stood before him, her proudyoung face now flushing, now pale with emotion, her wonderful eyesveiled lest he should read in their depths feelings that she wasstruggling to conceal. Her rounded bosom rose and fell with thefurious beatings of a heart she could not still.

  "No, no," the man rushed on, "you got to hear me, if it makes you hateme fer the rest of your life. I'm nothing but jest a plain fellerwho's lived all his life in this back country. I've got no education,nothin' but jest what I am--here. An' I love you, I love you likenothing else in all the world. Say," he went on, the first hot rush ofhis words checking, "I bin gropin' around these hills learning allthat's bin set there for me to learn. I tried to learn my lessonsright. I done my best. But this one thing they couldn't teach me.Something which I guess most every feller's got to learn some time.An' you've taught me that.

  "Say." The restraint lost its power, and the man's great passion swepthim on in a swift torrent. "I never knew a gal since I was raised. Inever knew how she could git right hold of your heart, an' make therest of the world seem nothing. I never knew how jest one woman couldset
the sun shining when her blue eyes smiled, and the storm ofthunder crowding over, when those eyes were full of tears. I neverdreamed how she could get around in fancy, and walk by your sidesmilin' and talkin' to you when you wandered over these lonesome hillsat your work. I never knew how she could come along an' raise you upwhen you're down, an' most everything looks black. I've learned thesethings now. I've learned 'em because you taught me."

  He laughed with a sort of defiance at what he felt must soundridiculous in her ears. "You asked me to teach you! Me teach you! Say,it's you taught me--everything. It's you taught me life ain't just aday's work an' a night's sleep. It's you taught me that life's awonderful, wonderful dream of joy an' delight. It's you taught me thesun's shining just for _me_ alone, an' every breath of these mountainsis just to make _me_ feel good. It's you taught me to feel there'snothing on God's earth I couldn't and wouldn't do to make you happy.You, who taught me to Live! You, with your wonderful blue eyes, an'your beautiful, beautiful face. You, with your mind as white an' pureas the mountain snow, an' your heart as precious as the gold our folksare forever chasin'. I love you, Joan. I love you, every moment Ilive. I love you so my two hands ain't enough by a hundred to gethelping you. I love you better than all the world. You're jest--jestmy whole life!"

  He stood with his arms outstretched toward the shrinking girl. Hiswhole body was shaking with the passion that had sent his wordspouring in a tide of unthought, unconsidered appeal. He had nounderstanding of whither his words had carried him. All he knew wasthat he loved this girl with his whole soul and body. That she couldlove him in return was something unbelievable, yet he must tell her.He must tell her all that was in his simple heart.

  He waited. It seemed ages, but in reality it was only moments.

  Presently Joan looked up. She raised her eyes timidly, and in a momentBuck saw that they were filled with unshed tears. He started forward,but she shrank back farther. But it was not with repugnance. Hermovement was almost reluctant, yet it was decided. It was sufficientfor the man, and slowly, hopelessly he dropped his arms to his sidesas the girl's voice so full of distress at last broke the silence.

  "Oh, Buck, Buck, why--oh, why have you said these things to me? Youdon't know what you have done. Oh, it was cruel of you."

  "Cruel?" Buck started. The color faded from his cheeks. "Me cruel--toyou?"

  "Yes, yes. Don't you understand? Can't you see? Now--now there isnothing left but--disaster. Oh, to think that I should have broughtthis upon you--you of all men!"

  Buck's eyes suddenly lit. Unversed as he was in all such matters, hewas not blind to the feeling underlying her words. But the lightswiftly died from his eyes as he beheld the great tears roll slowlydown the girl's fair cheeks, and her face droop forward into herhands.

  In a moment all restraint was banished in the uprising of his greatlove. Without a thought of consequences he bridged the interveningspace at one step, and, in an instant, his arms were about the slim,yielding figure he so tenderly loved. In a moment his voice, low,tender, yet wonderful in its consoling strength, was encouraging her.

  "Disaster?" he said. "Disaster because I love you? Where? How? Say,there's no disaster in my love for you. There can't be. All I ask, allI need is jest to make your path--easier. Your troubles ain't yoursany longer. They sure ain't. They're mine, now, if you'll jest hand'em to me. Disaster? No, no, little gal. Don't you to cry. Don't. Youreyes weren't made for cryin'. They're jest given you to be a man'shope. For you to see just how much love he's got for you."

  Joan submitted to his embrace for just so long as he was speaking.Then she looked up with terrified eyes and released herself.

  "No, no, Buck. I must not listen. I dare not. It is my fate. Myterrible fate. You don't understand. Beasley was right. I _was_responsible for Ike's death. For Pete's death. But not in the way hemeant. It is my curse. They loved me, and--disaster followedinstantly. Can't you see? Can't you see? Oh, my dear, can't you seethat this same disaster must dog you--now?"

  Buck stared. Then he gathered himself together.

  "Your fate?"

  "Yes, yes. I am cursed. Oh," Joan suddenly gave a shrill laugh thatwas painful to hear. "Every man that has ever told me--what you havetold me--has met with disaster, and--death."

  For one second no sound broke the stillness of the barn but therestless movements of Caesar. Then, suddenly, a laugh, a clear, buoyantlaugh, full of defiance, full of incredulity, rang through thebuilding.

  It was Buck. He moved forward, and in a moment the girl was lyingclose upon his breast.

  "Is that the reason you mustn't, daren't, listen to me?" he cried, ina voice thrilling with hope and confidence. "Is that the only reason?Jest because of death an' disaster to me? Jest that, an'--nothingmore? Tell me, little gal. Tell me or--or I'll go mad."

  "Yes, yes. But oh, you don't----"

  "Yes, I do. Say, Joan, my little, little gal. Tell me. Tell me rightnow. You ain't--hatin' me for--for loving you so bad. Tell me."

  Joan hid her face, and the tall man had to bend low to catch herwords.

  "I couldn't hate you, Buck. I--I----"

  But Buck heard no more. He almost forcibly lifted the beautiful,tearful face to his, as he bent and smothered it with kisses.

  After a few moments he stood her away from him, holding her slightshoulders, one in each hand. His dark eyes were glowing with a wildhappiness, a wonderful, reckless fire, as he peered into her blushingface.

  "You love me, little gal? You love me? Was ther' ever such a thoughtin the mind of sane man? You love me? The great big God's been mightygood to me. Disaster? Death? Let all the powers of man or devil comealong, an' I'll drive 'em back to the hell they belong to."