CHAPTER XXXIX
LOVE'S VICTORY
The rightness of Buck's conjecture was proved before evening, but notwithout long and painful effort. Joan was utterly weary, and the manwas reduced to such weakness and disability as, in all his life, hehad never known.
But they faced their task with the knowledge that with every moment ofdelay in procuring food their chances of escape from that land of ruinwere lessening. With food, and, consequently, with Buck's horse,safety would be practically assured. They would then, too, be able toprosecute a search for the man they both had learned to love so well.
With nightfall their hopes were realized, but only at a terrible costto the man. So great had become his weakness and suffering that it wasJoan who was forced to make provision for the night.
Both horses were grazing together with an unconcern that was trulyequine. Nor, when reviewed, was their escape the miracle it appeared.At the height of the storm they had been left on the farthest confinesof the plateau of Devil's Hill, where no fire would reach them, and ata considerable distance from the lake. Their native terror of firewould have held them there in a state bordering on paralysis. In allprobability no power on earth could have induced them to stir from thespot where they had been left, until the drenching rain had blottedout the furnace raging below. This had been Buck's thought. Then,perhaps, laboring under a fear of the quakings caused by thesubterranean fires of the hill, and their hungry stomachs crying outfor food, they had left the dreaded hill in quest of the pastures theycraved.
The well-stocked saddle-bags, which Buck's forethought had filled forthe long trail, now provided these lonely wanderers in the wildernesswith the food they needed, the saddle-blankets and the saddlesfurnished their open-air couches, and the horses, well, the horseswere there to afford them escape when the time came, and, in themeantime, could be left to recover from the effects of the storm andstress through which they, too, had passed.
With the following dawn Buck's improvement was wonderful, and Joanawoke from a deep, night-long slumber, refreshed and hopeful. Anoverhauling of their supplies showed them sufficient food, usedsparingly, to last a week. And with this knowledge Buck outlined theirplans to the girl, who hung upon his every word.
"We can't quit yet," he said, when they had broken their fast.
The girl waited, watching his dark contemplative eyes as they lookedacross the water at the diminished hill.
"Nope," he went on. "We owe him more'n that. We must chase around,an'--find him. We must----"
"Yes," Joan broke in, her eyes full of eager acquiescence. "We mustnot leave him--to--to--the coyotes." She shuddered.
"No. Guess I'll git the horses."
"You? Oh, Buck--let me. I am well and strong. It is my turn to dosomething now. Your work is surely finished."
Her pleading eyes smiled up into his, but the man shook his head withthat decision she had come to recognize and obey almost withoutquestion.
"Not on your life, little gal," he said, in his kindly, resolutefashion, and Joan was left to take her woman's place in their schemeof things.
But she shared in the search of the hill and the woods. She shared inthe ceaseless hunt for three long, weary, heart-breaking days over aland of desolation and loneliness. She rode at Buck's side hour afterhour on the sturdy horse that had served the Padre so faithfully, tillher body was healthily weary, and her eyes grew heavy with straining.But she welcomed the work. For, with the tender mother eye of thewoman in her, she beheld that which gladdened her heart, and made thehardest work a mere labor of love. Each passing day, almost with eachpassing hour, she witnessed the returning vigor of the man she loved.His recuperative powers were marvelous, and she watched his bodilyhealing as though he were her own helpless offspring.
For the rest their search was hopeless. The battling forces of astorm-riven earth had claimed their toll to the last fraction, andwith the cunning of the miser had secreted the levy. Not a trace wasthere of any human life but their own. The waters from the hill sweptthe little valley, and hugged to their bosom the secrets that laybeneath their surface. And the fall of rock held deeply buried allthat which it had embraced in its rending. The farm was utterlydestroyed, and with it had fallen victims every head of stock Joan hadpossessed. The old fur fort had yielded to the fire demon, where, forall the ages, it had resisted the havoc of storm. There was nothingleft to mark the handiwork of man, nothing but the terribledestruction it had brought about.
Thus it was on the fourth morning, after breaking their fast, and thehorses had been saddled, Buck once more packed the saddle-bags andstrapped them into their places behind the saddles. Joan watched himwithout question. She no longer had any question for that which hechose to ordain.
When all was ready he lifted her into her saddle, which she rodeastride, in the manner of the prairie. She was conscious of hisstrength, now returned to its full capacity. She was nothing in hisarms now, she might have been a child by the ease with which he liftedher. He looked to her horse's bridle, he saw that she was comfortable.Then he vaulted into Caesar's saddle with all his old agility.
"Which way, Buck?" The girl spoke with the easy manner of one who haslittle concern, but her eyes belied her words. A strange thrill wasstorming in her bosom.
"Leeson Butte," said Buck, a deep glow shining in his dark eyes.
Joan let her horse amble beside the measured, stately walk of Caesar.Her reins hung loose, and her beautiful eyes were shining as theygazed out eagerly ahead. She was thrilling with a happiness thatconflicted with a strange nervousness at the naming of theirdestination. She had no protest to offer, no question. It was as ifthe lord of her destiny had spoken, and it was her happiness anddesire to obey.
They rode on, and their way lay amidst the charred skeleton of a wide,stately wood. The air was still faint with the reek of burning. Therewas no darkness here beyond the blackened tree trunks, for thebrilliant summer sun lit up the glades, which, for ages, no sun's rayshad ever penetrated. The sense of ruin was passing from the minds ofthese children of the wilderness. Their focus had already adapteditself. Almost, even, their youthful eyes and hearts saw new beautiesspringing up about them. It was the work of that wonderful fount ofhope, which dies so hardly in us all, and in youth never.
At length they left the mouldering skeletons behind them, and thegracious, waving, tawny grass of the plains opened out before theirgladdened eyes. A light breeze tempered the glorious sunlight, and setripples afloat upon the waving crests of the motionless rollers of agrassy ocean.
Buck drew his horse down to a walk beside the girl, and his look hadlost its reflection of the sadness they were leaving behind. He had nodesire now to look back. For all his life the memory of his "bigfriend" would remain, for the rest his way lay directly ahead, hislife, and his--hope.
"It's all wonderful--wonderful out here, little Joan," he said,smiling tenderly down upon her sweet face from the superior height atwhich Caesar carried him. "Seems like we're goin' to read pages ofa--fresh book. Seems like the old book's all mussed up, so we can'tlearn its lessons ever again."
Joan returned the warmth of his gaze. But she shook her head with anassumption of wisdom.
"It's the same book, dear, only it's a different chapter. You see thestory always goes on. It must go on--to the end. Characters drop out.They die, or are--killed. Incidents happen, some pleasant, some--fullof sadness. But that's all part of the story, and must be. The storyalways goes on to the end. You see," she added with a tender smile,"the hero's still in the picture."
"An' the--gal-hero."
Joan shook her head decidedly.
"There's no heroine to this story," she said. "You need courage to bea heroine, and I--I have none. Do you know, Buck," she went onseriously, "when I look back on all that's gone I realize how much myown silly weakness has caused the trouble. If I had only had thecourage to laugh at my aunt's prophecies, my aunt's distortedpronouncements, all this trouble would have been saved. I should neverhave come to the farm. My aunt
would never have found the Padre. Thosemen would never have fired those woods when they burnt my farm,and--and the gentle-hearted Padre would never have lost his life."
It was Buck's turn to shake his head.
"Wrong, wrong, little gal," he said with a warmth of decision. "Whenyou came to us--to me, an' we saw your trouble, we jest set to work toclear a heap o' cobwebs from your mind. That was up to us, because youwere sure sufferin', and you needed help. But all we said, all we toldyou not to believe, those things were sure marked out, an' you, an'all of us had to go thro' with 'em. We can't talk away the plans o'Providence. You jest had to come to that farm. You jest had to do allthe things you did. Maybe your auntie, in that queer way of hers, toldyou the truth, maybe she saw things us others didn't jest see. Who cantell?"
Joan's eyes lit with a startled look as she listened to the man'swords. They made her wonder at the change in him. Had that terriblecataclysm impressed him with a new view of the life by which he wassurrounded? It might be. Then, suddenly, a fresh thought occurred toher. A memory rose up and confronted her, and a sudden joyous anxietythrilled her.
"Do you really think that, Buck?" she cried eagerly. "Do you? Do you?"
"Things seem changed, little gal," he said, half ruefully. "Seems tome the past week's been years an' years long." He laughed. "Maybe Igot older. Maybe I think those things now, same as most folks think'em--when they get older."
But Joan was full of her own thought, and she went on eagerly, passinghis reasons by.
"Listen, Buck, when Aunt Mercy told me all my troubles, she told mesomething else. But it seemed so small by the side of those otherthings, that I--that I almost forgot it. What was it? Her words? Yes,yes, I asked her, was there no hope for me? No means by which I couldbe saved from my fate? And she said that my only hope lay in finding alove that was stronger than death. These were her words----
"'I loved your father with a passion nothing, no disaster coulddestroy. Go you, child, and find you such a love. Go you and find alove so strong that no disaster can kill it. And maybe life may stillhave some compensations for you, maybe it will lift the curse fromyour suffering shoulders. It--it is the only thing in the world thatis stronger than disaster. It is the only thing in the world that isstronger than--death.'"
Her words dropped to a whisper as she finished speaking, and shewaited, like a criminal awaiting sentence, for the man's judgment onthem. Her eyes were downcast, and her rounded bosom was stirringtumultuously. What would he say? What would he think? And yet she musthave told him. Was he not the one person in the world who held herfate in his hands? Yes, he must know all there was in her mind. Andshe knew in her heart that he would understand as she wanted him tounderstand.
Buck suddenly reined Caesar in, and brought him to a standstill,turning him about so that he looked back upon the world they wereleaving behind them forever. In silence Joan responded to hismovement, and her horse closed up against the other.
"Guess your auntie's notions were all queer, so queer they're mightyhard to understand," he said reflectively. "But seems to me she's hita big truth some way. That curse is sure lifted--sure, sure."
He pointed at the grim outline of Devil's Hill, now fading in thedistance.
"Look ther' yonder. Yonder's the disaster, yonder is--death. An'we--we've sure passed through it. She's right. Our love is strongerthan disaster--stronger than death."
Then he turned and gazed ardently into her upturned face. "Guess wesure found that love together, little gal. An' it's ours to keepforever an' ever. Ther' ain't no other love comin' around. I'm yoursfer jest so long as I have life, an' you--wal, you're jest my whole,whole world."
He leant toward her, his dark eyes shining with his great love.Reaching out he drew her toward him, his strong, protecting armencircling her slim waist.
"Say, little gal," he went on urgingly, "we're goin' right on now toLeeson Butte. Ther's a passon ther' who can fix us right. An' whenthat's done, an' ther' ain't nuthin' in the world can come between us,why, then I sure got two mighty strong hands yearnin' to git busyhandin' you those things which can make a woman's life easy, an'--an'happy. Will you come, little Joan? Will you sure come?"
His eager young face was close to hers, and his deep breath fanned herwarm cheek. She gave him no verbal reply. At that moment she had nowords. But she turned toward him. And, as she turned, her lips met hisin one long, passionate kiss. He needed no other reply. She was givinghim herself. It was the soul of the woman speaking.
Some moments later their horses were again heading for Leeson Butte.The eyes of the girl were shining with a happiness such as she hadnever known before, and Buck sat with head erect, and the light of agreat purpose in his eyes. For a while they rode thus. Then the man'seyes twinkled with a sudden thought. For a moment he glanced at thegolden head so close beside him. Then he smiled.
"Say, little Joan," he cried, "guess you're that gal-hero after all."
Joan responded to his look.
"How?" she inquired, with a heightened color.
"Why, jest git a look at me. Me! You're goin' to marry me! I'd suresay you've a heap more grit than any gal-hero I've heard tell of."
Joan surveyed his unkempt figure,--the torn clothing, his unshavenface; the bandages made of her own undergarments, which he stillwore,--and the happy smile on her young face broadened.
"Well, you see, Buck, dear," she said joyously, "you can't be a properhero if you don't carry the scars of battle on you." She sighedcontentedly. "No, I'm afraid it doesn't need much 'grit' to marryyou."
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors;otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author'swords and intent.
The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Page 39
