The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  A BLACK NIGHT

  The Padre sat staring into space before the stove. Buck was in hisfavorite position at the open door, gazing out into the darkness ofthe night. As he smoked his evening pipe he was thinking, as usual, ofthe woman who was never quite out of his thoughts. He was intenselyhappy in the quiet fashion that was so much a part of him. It seemedto him unbelievable that he could have lived and been content beforehe met Joan. Now there could be no life without her, no world even.She pervaded his every sense, his whole being, with her beautifulpresence.

  He breathed deeply. Yes, it was all very, very wonderful. Then, bydegrees, his thoughts ran on to the expected arrival of Joan'srelative--that aunt whom he had heard so much about from the Padre.And in a moment an uneasy feeling made him shift his position. ThePadre's story was still vivid in his mind; he could never forget it.Nor could he forget this woman's place in it. These thoughts set himspeculating uneasily as to the possible result of her visit.

  He surreptitiously glanced over at the silent figure beside the stove.The man's pipe was still in his mouth, but it had gone out. Also hesaw, in that quick glance, that the fire in the stove had fallen low.But he made no move to replenish it. The night was very sultry.

  He turned again to his contemplation of the outer world. The night wasblack, jet black. There was not a star visible. The mountain air hadlost its cool snap, the accustomed rustle of the woods was gone. Therewas a tense stillness which jarred in an extraordinary degree.

  "A desperate, dark night," he said suddenly. He was merely voicing histhought aloud.

  The sound of his voice roused the other from his reverie. The Padrelifted his head and removed the pipe from between his teeth.

  "Yes--and hot. Throw us your tobacco."

  Buck pitched his pouch across, but remained where he was.

  "Guess that leddy's down at the farm by now," Buck went on. "Joan wasguessing she'd get around to-day. That's why I didn't go along there."

  "Yes, she is there." The Padre lit his pipe and smoked steadily.

  Buck turned quickly.

  "How d'you know?"

  "I met her on the trail. They missed their way this morning and hitthe trail below here, at the foot of the steps."

  "You didn't--let her see you?" Buck asked, after a pause.

  The Padre smiled.

  "I spoke to her. I put her on the right trail."

  "You spoke to her?" Buck's tone was half incredulous. "Didshe--recognize you?"

  The other nodded.

  "You see, I've not changed much--except for my hair."

  "What did she do--say?"

  The Padre's smile remained.

  "Said--I should see her again."

  For some moments the two men faced each other across the room. Theyellow lamplight plainly revealed their different expressions. ThePadre's smile was inimitable in its sphinx-like obscurity, but Buck'seyes were frankly troubled.

  "And that means?" Buck's question rang sharply.

  "She has neither forgotten nor--forgiven."

  Buck returned abruptly to his contemplation of the night, but histhoughts were no longer the happy thoughts of the lover. Withoutknowing it he was proving to himself that there were other things inthe world which could entirely obscure the happy light which thepresence of Joan shed upon his life.

  The Padre sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head,while his pipe burned hot and the smoke of it rose thickly. It was theonly outward sign he gave of any emotion. Buck suddenly forgot thenight. A desperate thought was running hotly through his brain. Hisfriend's admission had set his fertile young brain working furiously.It was traveling just whither a vivid imagination carried it. Areckless purpose was swiftly formulating.

  After a while he turned again. His resolve was taken on the impulse ofthe moment.

  "Padre," he said, "you shall never----" But his sentence remainedincomplete. He broke off, listening.

  The other was listening too.

  There was the sharp cracking of a forest tree--one of those mysteriouscreakings which haunt the woodland night. But there was another soundtoo. The trained ears of these men caught its meaning on the instant.It was the vague and distant sound of wheels upon the soft bed of thesandy trail.

  "A heavy wagon, an'--two hosses," said Buck.

  The Padre nodded.

  "Coming from the direction of the farm. Sounds like the old team,--andthey're being driven too fast for heavy horses. Joan hasn't got asaddle-horse of her own."

  His last remark explained his conviction, and the suggestion foundconcurrence in Buck's mind.

  They waited, and the sound grew louder. Then, without a word, Buckpassed out of the room.

  A few minutes later the rumble of wheels ceased, and the Padre heardBuck's voice greeting Joan.

  * * * * *

  A tragic light shone in Joan's eyes as she stood in the centre of theroom glancing from her lover to his friend. She was searching for anopening for what she had come to say. Her distraught brain wasoverwhelmed with thoughts she could not put into words. She had drivenover with the heavy team and wagon because she had no other means ofreaching these two, and unless she reached them to-night she felt thatby morning her sanity must be gone. Now--now--she stood speechlessbefore them. Now, her brain refused to prompt her tongue. All waschaos in her mind, and her eyes alone warned the men of the object ofher coming.

  It was the Padre's voice that finally guided her. He read withouthesitation or doubt the object of her mission.

  "Yes," he said simply. "I am Moreton Bucklaw, the man accused of yourfather's murder."

  Suddenly the girl's head drooped forward, and her hands covered herface as though to shut out the terrible truth which the man's wordsconveyed.

  "O God!" she cried. "Then she was not lying to me."

  Buck's eyes, fierce, almost savage at the sight of the girl's despair,shot a swift glance at his friend. It was a glance which only thewhite-haired man could have understood. To the looker-on it would haveexpressed a terrible threat. To the Padre it was the expression of aheart torn to shreds between love and friendship.

  "If she told you I killed him--she was lying."

  The man had not raised his tone. There was no other emotion in hismanner than distress for the girl's suffering.

  Joan looked up, and a gleam of hope struggled through her despair.

  "Then it's not true? Oh, I knew it--I knew it! She _was_ lying to me.She _was_ lying to me as she has always lied to me. Oh, thank God,thank God!" She dropped back into the chair that had been placed forher, but which up to that moment she had ignored.

  The two men waited for her emotion to pass. Buck as yet had nothing tosay. And the Padre knew that until she was mistress of herself wordswould only be wasted.

  Presently she looked up. Her eyes were dry, and the agony that hadsent her upon her headlong mission was passing. The Padre's reliefshowed in the smile with which he met her glance. Buck stood steadilyregarding her, longing to help her, but knowing that his time had notcome yet.

  "Tell me," she said, struggling hard for steadiness. "Tell me all--forI--I cannot seem to understand anything."

  The Padre bowed his head.

  "You know your own story. It is all substantially true that MercyLascelles has told you. All, that is, except that she claims I killedyour father. She did not see your father die. I did. I was the onlyone who saw him die--by his own hand, a desperate and ruined man.Listen, and I will tell you the whole story without concealing onetittle of my own doings and motives."

  Half an hour passed while the man's even voice recited without emotionall the details leading up to Charles Stanmore's death. He keptnothing back--his own love for the then handsome Mercy, and thepassionate insult he had offered her, when, in her love for the deadman, she became his housekeeper. He intended that, for Buck's sake,this girl should know everything, nor had he the least desire for anyconcealment on personal account. He did not spare hi
s own folly andthe cowardice of his flight. He felt that concealment of any sortcould only injure Buck, whom at all costs he must not hurt. He evenanalyzed, with all the logic at his command, Mercy Lascelles' motivesin accusing him. He declared his belief in her desire to marry thewidowed man and her own consequent hatred of himself, whose presencewas a constant thwart to her plans.

  And when he had finished something of the trouble had passed out ofthe girl's eyes. The color had returned to her cheeks, and he knewthat he had achieved his purpose.

  "I suppose it is terrible to you, child, to hear me speak of youraunt, one of your own sex, a blood relative, in this way," he said inconclusion. "But I believe that she is absolutely mad in her hatred ofme. And now that she has discovered my whereabouts nothing less willsatisfy her than that I must stand my trial, and--go to the electricchair. It is my purpose to stand my trial. It was for that reason,when I recognized her this morning, before she even saw me, Ipurposely thrust myself in her way. I intended that she should notlack opportunity, and my reason--well, that doesn't much matter."

  The girl nodded.

  "I think I am glad of your decision," she said simply. "You see, whenyou have established your innocence----"

  "I fear that result is--doubtful."

  The man's admission was quite frank. Nor was there even a suggestionof regret in his voice. But Joan's heart gripped with alarm. Thethought of such a contingency had never occurred to her simple mind.He had not committed murder. Then, of course, he was innocent. It hadall been made so simple. Now--now she was suddenly overwhelmed with anew terror.

  "You mean--you cannot prove--your innocence?" she cried incredulously.

  "You forget I was the only man with him. I was the last person withhim. And--I fled when I should have stayed to--help. The circumstancesare terribly against me."

  Joan's throat had suddenly parched. She struggled to speak, but nosound came. She looked to Buck for help and the man ran to her side.

  The gentle pressure of his protecting arm, as he rested one caressinghand upon her shoulder, gave her the relief she needed.

  "Oh, Buck, Buck! For the love of Heaven say something--do something,"she appealed. "They will kill him for a crime--of which he isinnocent."

  Suddenly the Padre's eyes glowed with a strange light of happiness.The girl's appeal to Buck had been the one saving touch in the midstof the cloud of tribulation overshadowing him. The daughter of hisbest friend, the daughter of the man he was supposed to have done todeath, had given her verdict. She believed in his innocence. He sighedwith the depth of his thankfulness. He could now face whatever laybefore him with perfect equanimity.

  But Buck had yet to play his part in the little drama so swiftlyworking itself out. His part was far different to the passive attitudeof the other man. He had no tolerance for the possible sacrifice of aninnocent life at the demand of a crazy woman who had come so nearlywrecking the life of the girl he loved. As Joan appealed to him hiseyes lit with a sudden fire of rebellion. And his answer came in a hotrush.

  "You think I'm goin' to let him die, Joan?" he cried, the hot bloodstaining his cheeks and brow. "I tell you he won't. I swear to you,sure, sure, he shan't die a murderer's death! I tell you right here,little gal, ther' ain't a sheriff in the country big enough to takehim. He says he must give up to arrest when the time comes. Wal, he'llhave to do it over my dead body."

  His words were in answer to Joan's appeal, but they were hurled at theman beside the fire, and were a defiance and a challenge from thedepths of a loyal heart.

  The Padre's smile was good to see. But he shook his head. Andinstantly Joan caught at the enthusiasm which stirred her lover andhugged it to herself. She sprang to her feet, and a wonderful lightshone in her eyes.

  "Buck is right, Padre. He is right," she cried. "Do you hear? Youshall not take the risk, you must not. Oh, Padre! you must live forour sakes. We know your innocence, then what more is needed after allthese years? For once let us be your mentors--you who have always beenthe mentor of others. Padre, Padre, you owe this to us. Think of it!Think of what it would mean. A murderer's death! You shall not, youcannot give yourself up. Buck is right. I, too, am with him."

  She turned to the man at her side, and, raising her arms, clasped herhands about his neck.

  "Buck--my Buck. Let us swear together that, while we have life, heshall never be the victim of this crazy, terrible woman. It shall beour fight--yours and mine."

  Buck gazed down into her beautiful, pleading eyes as he clasped herslim body in his strong, young arms. Her eyes were alight with a love,radiant in its supremacy over her whole being. Her championship of hisinnocent friend would have endeared her a thousandfold had such athing been possible. In that moment it was as though her courage, herloyalty, had completed the bond between them. His jaws gritted tight.His eyes shone with a fervent resolution.

  "It goes, little gal," he cried. "It's our lives for his. It suregoes--every time."