CHAPTER XXX
THE MOVING FINGER
The Padre stood at the top of the steps and looked out over the widestretching valley below him. His long day was drawing to a close, buthe felt no weariness of body. There was a weariness of mind, aweariness of outlook. There was something gray and cold and hopelessupon his horizon, something which left him regretful of all that whichlay within his view now.
There was a half smile in his eyes, as, for a moment, they rested onthe narrow indistinct trail which looked so far below him. He wasthinking of that apparition he had met only a few days back, theapparition which had suddenly leapt out of his past. It was all verystrange, very wonderful, the working of those mysterious things whichmake it certain that no page in a human creature's life can be turnedonce and for all.
Yes, it was all very wonderful. The hand of Fate had begun to moveagainst him when he had greeted that starving fragment of humanity atthe trail-side, more than twenty years ago. It had moved steadilysince then in every detail of his life. It had been progressing in thework he had done in the building of his farm. Its moving finger hadpointed every day of Buck's young life. In the necessities of thosepoor gold-seekers it had shown its unerring direction, even in thespirit which had prompted him to help them, which involved theselling of his farm.
Then he saw its bitter irony. It had done its work by bringing Joaninto contact with Buck, and, with cruel derision, had shown him howunnecessary his sacrifice had been. Then had come all those otherthings, moving so swiftly that it was almost impossible to count eachstep in the iron progress of the moving finger. It had come with anoverwhelming rush which swept him upon its tide like a feather uponthe bosom of the torrent. And now, caught in the whirling rapids belowthe mighty falls, he could only await the completion of the sentenceso long since pronounced.
The smile broadened, spreading gently across his face. He realized hewas admitting all he had denied to Joan. But the thought brought himno weakening. The wisdom of years had taught him much that must not becommunicated to a younger generation. Life would teach them in theirturn; they must not learn the truths which lay before them beforetheir time. It was better to lie than to destroy the hope of youth.
His conscience was clear, his resolve perfect in its steadiness. Thehappiness of two people was at stake. For Buck he would give up all.There was no sacrifice too great. For Joan--she was the fair daughterof his oldest friend. His duty was clear by her. There was one course,and one course only that he could see for himself. To remove the lastshadow from these young lives he must face the ordeal which lay beforehim. What its outcome might be he could not quite see, but he was notwithout hope. There were certain details surrounding the death of hisfriend which did not fit in with his guilt. He had no weapon upon himin that house. Nor was there the least reason for the crime. He knewhe would be confronted by the evidence of a woman who hated him, awoman capable of manufacturing evidence to suit her own ends. But,whatever else she might do, she could not produce a weapon belongingto him, nor could she invent a reason for the crime that could not bedisproved. At least this was the hope he clung to.
However, he knew that he could not leave the shadow of his possibleguilt to cloud the lives of these two, just setting out on their longjourney together. The possibilities of it for harm were far too great.The ocean of hot, youthful love was far too possible of disaster foran unnecessary threat to overshadow it.
No, he had refused the request of these two from the first moment whenhe had realized his duty by them, and now, after careful thought, hisresolve remained unshaken.
Still, he was not without regret as he gazed out over that vast worldhe had learned to love so well. The thought of possibly never seeingit again hurt him. The wide valleys, the fair, green pastures, thefrowning, mysterious woods with their utter silence, the butting cragswith their barren crests, or snow-clad shoulders. They held him in athrall of almost passionate devotion. They would indeed be hard topart with.
He looked away down the gaping jaws of the valley at the black crestof Devil's Hill. It was a point that never failed to attract him, andnow more so than ever. Was it not round this hill that all his pastefforts had been concentrated?
He studied it. Its weirdness held him. A heavy mist enveloped itscrown, that steaming mist which ever hung above the suspended lake.It was denser now than usual. It had been growing denser for the lasttwo days, and, in a vague way, he supposed that those internal fireswhich heated the water were glowing fiercer than usual. He glanced upat the sky, and almost for the first time realized the arduous effortsof the westering sun to penetrate the densely humid atmosphere. It wasstiflingly hot, when usually the air possessed a distinct chill.
But these things possessed only a passing interest. The vagaries ofthe mountain atmosphere rarely concerned him. His vigorous body wasquite impervious to its changes. He picked up his "catch" of pelts andshouldered them. They were few enough, and as he thought of theunusual scarcity of foxes the last few days he could not help feelingthat the circumstance was only in keeping with the rest of the passingevents of his life.
He made his way along the foot-path which wound its way through thepine bluff, in the midst of which the old fur fort lay hidden insideits mouldering stockade. He flung the pelts into the storeroom, andpassed on to the house, wondering if Buck had returned from the camp,whither he knew he had been that day.
He found him busy amidst a pile of stores spread out upon the floorand table, and a mild surprise greeted the youngster as he lookedround from his occupation.
"You never said--you were getting stores, Buck?"
The Padre eyed the pile curiously. Finally his eyes paused at theobvious ammunition cases.
Buck followed the direction of his gaze.
"No," he said; and turned again to his work of bestowing the goods inthe places he had selected for them.
The Padre crossed the room and sat down. Then he leisurely began toexchange his moccasins for a pair of comfortable house-shoes.
"Had we run short?" he asked presently.
"No."
Buck's manner was touched with something like brusqueness.
"Then--why?"
Buck straightened up, bearing in his arms an ammunition box.
"Because we may need 'em," he said, and bestowed the box under thesettle with a kick.
"I don't get you--that's revolver ammunition you just put away."
"Yes."
Buck continued his work until the room was cleared. The other watchedhim interestedly. Then as the younger man began to prepare theirsupper the Padre again reverted to it.
"Maybe you'll tell me about 'em--now?" he said, with his easy smile.
Buck had just set the kettle on the stove. He stood up, and a frown ofperplexity darkened his brow.
"Maybe I won't be able to get to camp again," he said. "Maybe we'llneed 'em for another reason."
"What other?"
"The sheriff's comin'. That woman's sent for him. I've figgered out hecan't get along till 'bout to-morrow night, or the next mornin'.Anyway it don't do to reckon close on how quick a sheriff can gitdoin'."
The Padre's smile had died out of his eyes. He sighed.
"The sheriff's coming, eh?" Then he went on after a pause. "But thesestores--I don't see----"
A dark flame suddenly lit Buck's eyes, but though he broke in quicklyit was without the heat that was evidently stirring within him.
"They're for Joan, an' me--an' you. When the time comes guess we'regoing where no sheriff can follow us, if you don't make trouble. Idon't guess you need tellin' of the valley below us. You know it, an'you know the steps. You know the canyon away on toward Devil's Hill.That's the way we're goin'--when the time comes. An' I'd say thereain't no sheriff or dep'ties'll care to follow us through that canyon.After that we cut away north. Ther's nobody can follow our trail thatway."
Something almost of defiance grew into his voice as he proceeded. Hewas expecting denial, and was ready to resist it with all his force.
"Buck, Buck, this is madness--rank madness," he cried. "To resist thelaw in the way your hot head dictates is to outlaw yourselves beyondall redemption. You don't understand what you are doing. You don'tknow to what you are condemning this little Joan. You don't know howsurely your methods will condemn _me_."
But Buck was on fire with rebellion against the injustice of alaw which claimed the Padre as its victim. He saw the hideouspossibilities following upon his friend's arrest, and was determinedto give his life in the service of his defense.
"It's not madness," he declared vehemently. "It's justice, realjustice that we should defend our freedom. If you wer' guilty, Padre,it would be dead right to save yourself. It's sure the right ofeverything to save its life. If you're innocent you sure got stillmore right. Padre, I tell you they mean to fix you. That woman's gota cinch she ain't lettin' go. She's lived for this time, Joan's toldme. She'll raise plumb hell to send you to your death. Padre, justlisten to us. It's me an' Joan talkin' now. What I say she says. Wecan see these things different to you; we're young. You say it's yourduty to give up to this woman. We say it's our duty you _shan't_. Ifyou give up to her you're giving up to devil's mischief, an' that'sdead wrong. An' nothin' you can say can show me you got a right tohelp devil's work. We'll light out of here before they come. Us three.If you stop here, we stop too, an' that's why I got the ammunition.More than that. Ther's others, too, won't see you taken. Ther'sfellers with us in the camp--fellers who owe you a heap--like I do."
The Padre watched the steam rising from the kettle with moody eyes.The youngster was tempting him sorely. He knew Buck's determination,his blind loyalty. He felt that herein lay his own real danger. Yes,to bolt again, as he had done that time before, would be an easy wayout. But its selfishness was too obvious. He could not do it. To do sowould be to drag them in his train of disaster, to blight their livesand leave them under the grinding shadow of the law.
No, it could not be.
"Looked at from the way you look at it, there is right enough in whatyou say, boy," he said kindly. "But you can't look at civilized lifeas these mountains teach you to look at things. When the sheriff comesI yield to arrest, and I trust in God to help us all. My mind is madeup."
For some moments Buck stared down at the sturdy friend who had takenthe place of his dead father. His eyes softened, and their fire diedout. But there was no rescinding of his desperate decision. He wasthinking of what it would mean, the thought of this white-haired manin the hands of the executioner. He was thinking of the kindly heartbeating within that stalwart bosom. He was thinking of the wonderful,thoughtful kindness for others which was always the motive of hislife. And a deep-throated curse rose to his lips. But it found noutterance. It could not in that presence.
"An' my mind's made up," he jerked out at last, with concentratedforce. Then he added with an abrupt softening, "Let's eat, Padre. Iwas forgettin'. Mebbe you're hungry some."
The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Page 30
