The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  THE TEMPEST BREAKS

  Buck moved out of Caesar's stall. He had just finished lightly securingthe double cinchas of his saddle. The bulging saddle-bags had beenmade fast behind the cantle and the wallets strapped upon the horn.Now the great animal was hungrily devouring an added feed of oatswhich his master had poured into its manger.

  The man glanced over the equipments, and moved to the other end of thestable, where stood the Padre's heavily built chestnut. It, too, wasready saddled as though for a journey. Here again the saddle-bags andwallets had been filled and adjusted. Here again the creature wasdevouring an extra feed.

  Buck heaved a sigh of satisfaction and turned away to where thelantern was hanging on a nail in the wooden wall. Close beside this abelt, loaded down with revolver ammunition, and carrying two holstersfrom which the butts of a pair of heavy revolvers protruded, wassuspended from another nail. This he took down and strapped about hiswaist.

  His work for the night was done, and all his preparations made. Thenight itself must direct the further course of action for him. As faras he could see he had prepared for every possible development, but,as he admitted to himself, he could only see from his own point ofview. He was at work against two opposing forces. There was the lawand Bob Richards on the one hand, and, on the other, the Padre, with adetermination equal to his own. Of the two, he felt that theredoubtable Bob, backed by the law, would be far the easier to dealwith.

  This night, he anticipated, was to be the last he spent in that oldfort. He more than anticipated it; he felt certain. He had heard earlyin the day of the return of Joan's Aunt Mercy, and this was anall-sufficient reason for his belief. Since that moment he hadcompleted every preparation which before he had only tentativelyconsidered; and such matters had been attended to entirely independentof his friend.

  This had to be. It was useless to inform him of anything, worse thanuseless, until the last moment, when he intended that his schemesshould be executed to the last detail. After much painful thought hehad finally decided upon coercion to gain his ends. No mere bluff, buta straightforward, honest declaration of his intentions. It was veryhurtful that he must do this thing. But he could not help it. He hadresolved on saving his friend from himself, and no considerations ofpersonal feelings or, in fact, anybody's feelings, should be allowedto stand in his way. He regarded his duty as a man, and not as alaw-abiding citizen. He had no real understanding of the law. His wasthe only law that guided him, and his law demanded of him, rightly orwrongly, the defense from all harm of those whom he loved.

  His manhood dictated this, and he had no thought of personal danger,or toward what painful destiny it might carry him. The future belongedto the future, life and death were things of no more account thanwaking to daylight, or the profound slumbers of night. Those whowould injure him or his friend must be dealt with in the only way heunderstood. To outwit them was his first thought, but he must defeattheir ends if it cost him his life.

  This was the man who had learned from the book of Life, as it iswritten in the earth's rough places. He was not naturally desperate,but, as with the creatures of the forests, which had taught him somany lessons, when brought to bay in defense of their own, so he wasready to bare his teeth--and use them.

  He reached for the lantern with the thought of extinguishing it. Buthe changed his mind. There was no window that the light might become abeacon. He would close the door and leave it burning.

  He turned to pass out, but remained where he was. The Padre wasstanding in the doorway, and his steady eyes were upon the saddledhorses.

  Buck had no word of greeting to offer. His dark eyes were intentlyfixed upon the other's face. In a moment his friend turned to him.

  "It's just on nine, Buck," he said, in his kindest fashion. "Wehaven't eaten yet--it's ready."

  It was Buck's turn to glance over at the horses so busily eating theiroats. A curious smile lit his eyes. He knew well enough that the otherhad more than fathomed the meaning of those preparations. He was gladhe had made no attempt to conceal them. That sort of thing was neverhis way. He had nothing to conceal from his friend.

  "I had a few chores to git fixed," he said easily, indicating thehorses. "They'll sure need a good feed before daylight, I guess."

  The Padre pointed at his belt and revolvers.

  "And you're sleeping in--them."

  "Guess I'm not sleepin'--to-night."

  "No--I suppose not."

  The Padre looked into the strong young face with a speculative glance.

  Buck returned his look with a sudden eagerness.

  "You heard?" he asked sharply.

  "I've heard--Mercy is back."

  Buck watched him turn away to continue his survey of the horses.

  "So have you--I s'pose," the older man went on a moment later,indicating the horses.

  "Yep. Guess they'll need to do a long journey soon. Mebbe--to-night."

  "Caesar?" said the Padre.

  "Both," returned Buck, with an emphasis, the meaning of which couldnot well be missed.

  The Padre's eyes were smiling. He glanced round the tumbled-down oldbarn. They had contrived to house their horses very comfortably, andBuck kept them wonderfully cared for. These things appealed to him ina way that made him regret many things.

  "Who's riding--my plug?" the Padre asked deliberately.

  Buck shrugged.

  "Why ask?" he said doggedly. "Who generally does? I don't seem toguess we need beat around," he went on impatiently. "That ain't binour way, Padre. Guess those hosses are ready for us. They'll be readynight an' day--till the time comes. Then--wal, we're both goin' to use'em."

  The younger man's impatience had no disturbing effect upon the other.But his smile deepened to a great look of affection.

  "Still chewin' that bone?" he said. Then he shook his head. "What'sthe use? We're just men, you and I; we got our own way of seeingthings. Twenty years ago maybe I'd have seen things your way. Twentyyears hence no doubt you'll see things mine----"

  "Jest so," Buck broke in, his eyes lighting, and a strong notesuddenly adding force to his interruption. "But I'm not waitin' twentyyears so's to see things diff'rent."

  "That's what I should have said--twenty years ago."

  Buck's face suddenly flushed, and his dark brows drew together as helistened to the calm words of his friend. In a moment his answer waspouring from his lips in a hot tide which swept his hearer along andmade him rejoice at the bond which existed between them. Nor, in thosemoments, could he help feeling glad for that day when he had found thehungry wayfarer at the trail-side.

  "Ther's more than twenty years between us, sure," Buck cried withintense feeling. "Nuthin' can alter that, an' ther's sure nuthin' canmake us see out o' the same eyes, nor feel with the same feelin's.Ther's nuthin' can make things seem the same to us. I know that, an'it ain't no use you tellin' me. Guess we're made diff'rent thatway--an' I allow it's as well. If we weren't, wal, I guess neither ofus would have things right. See here, Padre, you give most everythingto me you could, ever since you brought me along to the farm. That'sbecause it's your way to give. I hadn't nuthin' to give. I haven'tnuthin' to give now. I can't even give way. Guess you can, though,because it's your nature, and because I'm askin' it. Padre, I'm goin'to act mean. I'm goin' to act so mean it'll hurt you. But it won'thurt you more than it'll hurt me. Mebbe it won't jest hurt you somuch. But I'm goin' to act that way--because it's my way--when I'm setup agin it. You're settin' me up agin it now."

  He paused, vainly watching the other's steady eyes for a sign.

  "Go on." The Padre's smile was undiminished.

  Buck made an impatient movement, and pointed at the horses.

  "See them? Ther' they stand," he cried. "Ther' they'll sure stand tillwe both set out for the long trail. I got it all fixed. I got morethan that fixed. See these guns?" He tapped one of the guns at hiswaist. "They're loaded plumb up. The belt's full of shots. I got tworepeatin' rifles stowed away, an' their magazines
are loaded plumb up,too. Wal--unless you say right here you're goin' to hit the trail withme, when--things get busy; unless you tell me right out you're goin'to let me square off jest a bit of the score you got chalked up aginme all these years by lettin' me help you out in this racket, then I'mgoin' to set right out ther' by the old stockade, and when BobRichards gets around, he an' as many of his dogone dep'ties as I canpull down are goin' to get their med'cine. They'll need to take mewith you, Padre. Guess I'm sharin' that 'chair' with you, if theydon't hand it me before I get ther'. What I'm sayin' goes, every wordof it. This thing goes, jest as sure as I'll blow Bob Richards to hellbefore he lays hand on you."

  The younger man's eyes shone with a passionate determination. Therewas no mistaking it. His was a fanatical loyalty that was almoststaggering.

  The Padre drew a sharp breath. He had not studied this youngster forall those years without understanding something of the recklessness hewas capable of. Buck's lips were tightly compressed, his thin nostrilsdilating with the intense feeling stirring him. His cheeks were pale,and his dark eyes flashed their burning light in the dim glow of thelantern. He stood with hands gripping, and the muscles of his barearms writhed beneath the skin with the force with which they clenched.He was strung to an emotion such as the Padre had never before seen inhim, and it left the older man wavering.

  He glanced away.

  "Aren't we worrying this thing on the crossways?" he said, endeavoringto disguise his real feelings.

  But Buck would have none of it. He was in no mood for evasion. In nomood for anything but the straightest of straight talk.

  "Ther's no crosswise to me," he cried bluntly, with a heat that mightalmost have been taken for anger. Then, in a moment, his mannerchanged. His tone softened, and the drawn brows smoothed. "Say, youbin better'n a father to me. You sure have. Can I stand around an' seeyou passed over to a low-down sort o' law that condemns innocentfolks? No, Padre, not--not even for Joan's sake. I jest love thatlittle Joan, Padre. I love her so desprit bad I'd do most anything forher sake. You reckon this thing needs doin' for her." He shook hishead. "It don't. An' if it did, an' she jest wanted it done--which shedon't--I'd butt in to stop it. Say, I love her that way I want to fixher the happiest gal in this country--in the world. But if seein' yougo to the law without raisin' a hand to stop it was to make herhappy, guess her chances that way 'ud be so small you couldn't neverfind 'em. If my life figures in her happiness, an' I'm savin' thatlife while you take your chance of penitentiary an'--the 'chair,' wal,I guess she'll go miserable fer jest as many years as she goes onlivin'."

  The Padre turned away. It was impossible for him to longer face thoseearnest young eyes pleading to be allowed to give their life for hisliberty. The reckless prodigality of the youngster's heart filled himwith an emotion that would not be denied. He moved over to where Caesarstood, and smoothed the great creature's silky quarters with a shakinghand. Buck's storming he could have withstood, but not--this.

  The other followed his every movement, as a beggar watches for theglance of sympathy. And as the moments passed, and the Padre remainedsilent, his voice, keyed sharply, further urged him.

  "Wal?"

  But the other was thinking, thinking rapidly of all those things whichhis conscience, and long years of weary hiding prompted. He was tryingto adapt his focus anew. His duty had seemed so plain to him. Then,too, his inclination had been at work. His intention had not seemed agreat sacrifice to him. He was weary of it all--these years ofavoiding his fellows. These years during which his mind had beenthrown back upon the thought of whither all his youthful, headlongfollies and--cowardice had driven him. Strong man as he was, somethingof his strength had been undermined by the weary draining of thoseyears. He no longer had that desire to escape, which, in youth, hadurged him. He was almost anxious to face his accusers. And with thatthought he knew that he was getting old. Yes, he was getting old--andBuck--Buck was almost his son. He could not see the boy's young lifethrown away for him, a life so full of promise, so full of quiethappiness. He knew that that would happen if he persisted. He knewthat every word of Buck's promise would be carried out to the letter.That was his way. There was no alternative left now but for him togive way. So he turned back and held out his hand.

  "What you say--goes," he said huskily. "I--I hope what we're doing isright."

  Buck caught the strong hand in his, and the other winced under hisgrip.

  "Right?" he cried, his eyes shining with a great happiness. "Right?You'll save that old woman the worst crime on earth. You're savin' thelaw from a crime which it's no right to commit. You're handin' littleJoan a happiness you can't even guess at in keepin' your liberty--an'me, wal, you're handin' me back my life. Say, I ain't goin' to thankyou, Padre. I don't guess I know how. That ain't our way." He laughedhappily. "Guess the score you got agin me is still mountin' right up.I don't never seem to git it squared. Wal, we'll let it go. Maybe it'salmost a pity Bob Richards won't never have the chance of thanking youfor--savin' his life, too."

  The delight in his manner, his shining joy were almost sufficientrecompense to the Padre. He had given way to this youngster as healways gave way. It had been so from the first. Yes, it was always so,and--he was glad.

  Buck turned toward the door, and, as he did so, his arm affectionatelylinked into that of his friend.

  "We'll need that supper, Padre," he said, more soberly. "There's along night, and it ain't easy to guess what may happen beforedaylight. Come right along."

  They passed the doorway, but proceeded no farther. Buck held up hishand, and they stood listening.

  "Wait! Hark!" he cried, and both turned their eyes toward the westwardhills.

  As they stood, a low, faint growl of thunder murmured down the distanthillsides, and died away in the long-drawn sigh of a rising wind. Thewind swept on, and the rustling trees and suddenly creaking branchesof the forest answered that sharp, keen breath.

  "It's coming--from the northwest," said the Padre, as though thedirection were significant.

  "Yes." Buck nodded with understanding. "That's wher' the other comefrom."

  They stood for some moments waiting for a further sign. But nothingcame. The night was pitch black. There was no break anywhere in thesky. The lamplight in the house stared out sharp and clear, but thehouse itself, as with the barns and other outbuildings, the stockade,even the line of the tree tops where they met the sky, was quite lostin the inky night.

  "It'll come quick," said the Padre.

  "Sure."

  They moved on to the house, and in a few minutes were sitting down toone of those silent meals which was so much a part of their habit. Yeteach man was alert. Each man was thinking of those things which theyknew to be threatening. Each man was ready for what might beforthcoming. Be it tempest or disaster, be it battle or death, eachwas ready to play his part, each was ready to accept the verdict as itmight be given.

  Buck was the first to push back from the table. He rose from his seatand lit his pipe. Then, as the pungent fumes lolled heavily on thesuperheated air, he passed over to the open window and took his seatupon the sill.

  The Padre was more leisurely. He remained in his seat and raked outthe bowl of his pipe with the care of a keen smoker. Then he cut histobacco carefully from his plug, and rolled it thoughtfully in thepalms of his hands.

  "Say, about little Joan," he said abruptly. "Will she join us on----?"

  His question remained unfinished. At that instant Buck sprang from hisseat and leant out of the window. The Padre was at his side in aninstant.

  "What----?"

  "Holy Mackinaw! Look!" cried Buck, in an awed tone.

  He was pointing with one arm outstretched in a direction where theruined stockade had fallen, leaving a great gaping space. The openingwas sharply silhouetted against a wide glow of red and yellow light,which, as they watched, seemed to grow brighter with each passingmoment.

  Each man was striving to grasp the full significance of what hebeheld. It was fire. It needed no second
thought to convince them ofthat. But where--what? It was away across the valley, beyond thefurther lip which rose in a long, low slope. It was to the left ofDevil's Hill, but very little. For that, too, was dimly silhouetted,even at that distance.

  The Padre was the first to speak.

  "It's big. But it's not the camp," he said. "Maybe it's the--forest."

  For a moment Buck made no answer. But a growing look of alarm was inhis straining eyes.

  "It's not a prairie fire," the Padre went on. "There's not enoughgrass that way. Say, d'you think----" A sudden fear had leapt into hiseyes, too, and his question remained unfinished.

  Buck stirred. He took a deep breach. The alarm in his eyes hadsuddenly possessed his whole being. Something seemed to be clutchinghis heart, so that he was almost stifled.

  "It's none o' them things," he said, striving to keep his voicesteady. Then of a sudden he reached out, and clutched the arm of hisfriend, so that his powerful fingers sank deep into its flesh.

  "It's the--farm!" he cried, in a tone that rang with a terrible dread."Come on! The hosses!" And he dashed from the room before the lastsound of his voice had died out.

  The Padre was hard on his heels. With danger abroad he was no laggard.Joan--poor little Joan! And there were miles to be covered before herlover could reach her.

  But the dark shadows of disaster were crowding fast. Evil was abroadsearching every corner of the mountain world for its prey. Almost in amoment the whole scene was changed, and the dull inertia of past dayswas swept aside amidst a hurricane of storm and demoniacal tempest.

  A crash of appalling thunder greeted the ears of the speeding men. Theearth seemed to shake to its very foundations. Ear-splittingdetonations echoed from crag to crag, and down deep into the valleysand canyons, setting the world alive with a sudden chaos. Peal afterpeal roared over the hills, and the lightning played, hissing andshrieking upon ironstone crowns, like a blinding display ofpyrotechnics.

  There was no pause in the sudden storm. There was no mercy forwretched human nerves. The blinding light was one endless chain,sweeping across the heavens as though bent on forever wresting fromits path the black shadows that defied it.

  And amidst all this turmoil, amidst all the devastating roar, whichshook the earth as though bent on wrecking the very mountainsthemselves, amidst all the blinding, hellish light, so fierce, sointense, that the last secrets of the remotest forest depths must beyielded up, two horsemen dashed down the trail from the fur fort asfast as sharp spurs could drive their eager beasts.