CHAPTER XIX
THE POINT OF VIEW
She sank back upon the chair, her face completely hidden within herarms. Winston, his hand already grasping the latch of the door, pausedand glanced around at her, a sudden revulsion of feeling leaving himunnerved and purposeless. He had been possessed by but one thought, asavage determination to seek out Farnham and kill him. The brute wasno more than a mad dog who had bitten one he loved; he was unworthy ofmercy. But now, in a revealing burst of light, he realized the utterfutility of such an act. Coward, brutal as the man unquestionably was,he yet remained her husband, bound to her by ties she heldindissoluble. Any vengeful blow which should make her a widow would ascertainly separate the slayer from her forever. Unavoidably though itmight occur, the act was one never to be forgiven by Beth Norvell,never to be blotted from her remembrance. Winston appreciated this asthough a sudden flash-light had been turned upon his soul. He hadlooked down into her secret heart, he had had opened before him thereligious depth of her nature--this bright-faced, brown-eyed womanwould do what was right although she walked a pathway of self-denyingagony. Never once did he doubt this truth, and the knowledge grippedhim with fingers of steel. Even as he stood there, looking back uponher quivering figure, it was no longer hate of Farnham whichcontrolled; it was love for her. He took a step toward her, hesitant,uncertain, his heart a-throb with sympathy; yet what could he say?What could he do? Utterly helpless to comfort, unable to even suggesta way out, he drew back silently, closed the door behind him, and shuther in. He felt one clear, unalterable conviction--under God, itshould not be for long.
He stood there in the brilliant sunlight, bareheaded still; lookingdreamily off across the wide reach of the canyon. How peaceful, howsublimely beautiful, it all appeared; how delicately the tints of thosedistant trees blended and harmonized with the brown rocks beyond! Thebroad, spreading picture slowly impressed itself upon his brain,effacing and taking the place of personal animosity. In so fair aworld Hope is ever a returning angel with healing in his wings; andWinston's face brightened, the black frown deserting his forehead, allsternness gone from his eyes. There surely must be a way somewhere,and he would discover it; only the weakling and the coward can sit downin despair. Out of the prevailing silence he suddenly distinguishedvoices at hand, and the sound awoke him to partial interest. Justbefore the door where he stood a thick growth of bushes obstructed theview. The voices he heard indistinctly came from beyond, and hestepped cautiously forward, peering in curiosity between the partedbranches.
It was a narrow section of the ledge, hemmed in by walls of rock andthinly carpeted with grass, a small fire burning near its centre.There was an appetizing smell of cookery in the air, and three figureswere plainly discernible. The old miner, Mike, sat next the embers, asizzling frying-pan not far away, his black pipe in one oratoricallyuplifted hand, a tin plate in his lap, his grouchy, seamed old facescrewed up into argumentative ugliness, his angry eyes glaring at theSwede opposite, who was loungingly propped against a convenient stone.The latter looked a huge, ungainly, raw-boned fellow, possessing a redand white complexion, with a perfect shock of blond hair whollyunaccustomed to the ministrations of a comb. He had a long, peculiarlysolemn face, rendered yet more lugubrious by unwinking blue eyes and adrooping moustache of straw color. Altogether, he composed a pictureof unutterable woe, his wide mouth drawn mournfully down at thecorners, his forehead wrinkled in perplexity. Somewhat to the right ofthese two more central figures, the young Mexican girl contributed atouch of brightness, lolling against the bank in graceful relaxation,her black eyes aglow with scarcely repressed merriment. However theexisting controversy may have originated, it had already attained astage for the display of considerable temper.
"Now, ye see here, Swanska," growled the thoroughly aroused Irishmanvehemently. "It's 'bout enough Oi 've heard from ye on that now. Thar's r'ason in all things, Oi 'm tould, but Oi don't clarely moind iverhavin' met any in a Swade, bedad. Oi say ye 're nothin' betther than adommed foreigner, wid no business in this counthry at all, at all,takin' the bread out o' the mouths of honest min. Look at the Oirish,now; they was here from the very beginnin'; they 've fought, bled, an'died for the counthry, an' the loikes o' ye comes in an' takes theirjobs. Be hivins, it 's enough to rile the blood. What's the name ofye, anny how?"
"Ay ban Nels Swanson."
"Huh! Well, it's little the loikes o' ye iver railly knows aboutnames, Oi 'm thinkin'. They tell me ye don't have no proper, dacentnames of yer own over in Sweden,--wherever the divil that is, Idunno,--but jist picks up annything handy for to dhraw pay on."
"It ban't true."
"It's a loiar ye are! Bad cess to ye, ain't Oi had to be bunk-mate widsome o' ye dhirty foreigners afore now? Ye 're _sons_, the whole kitand caboodle o' ye--Nelsons, an' Olesons, an' Swansons, an' Andersons.Blissed Mary! an' ye call them things names? If ye have anny othercognomen, it's somethin' ye stole from some Christian all unbeknownstto him. Holy Mother! but ye ought to be 'shamed to be a Swade, yemiserable, slab-sided haythen."
"My name ban Swanson; it ban all right, hey?"
"Swanson! Swanson! Oh, ye poor benighted, ignorant foreigner!" andMike straightened up, slapping his chest proudly. "Jist ye look at me,now! Oi'm an O'Brien, do ye moind that? An O'Brien! Mother o' God!we was O'Briens whin the Ark first landed; we was O'Briens whin yerancestors--if iver ye had anny--was wigglin' pollywogs pokin' in themud. We was kings in ould Oireland, begorry, whin ye was a mollusk, ormaybe a poi-faced baboon swingin' by the tail. The gall of the loikesof ye to call yerselves min, and dhraw pay wid that sort of thingferninst ye for a name! Oi 'll bet ye niver had no grandfather; ye 'renothin' but a it, a son of a say-cook, be the powers! An' ye come overhere to work for a thafe--a dhirty, low-down thafe. Do ye moind that,yer lanthern-jawed spalpeen? What was it yer did over beyant?"
"Ay ban shovel-man fer Meester Burke--hard vork."
"Ye don't look that intilligent from here. Work!" with a snort, andwaving his pipe in the air. "Work, is it? Sure, an' it's all theloikes of ye are iver good for. It 's not brains ye have at all, or ye'd take it a bit aisier. Oi had a haythen Swade foreman oncet over atthe 'Last Chance.' God forgive me for workin' undher the loikes ofhim. Sure he near worked me to death, he did that, the ignorantfurriner. Work! why, Oi 'm dommed if a green Swade did n't fall thefull length of the shaft one day, an' whin we wint over to pick him up,what was it ye think the poor haythen said? He opened his oies an'asked, 'Is the boss mad?' afeared he 'd lose his job! An' so ye wasworkin' for a thafe, was ye? An' what for?"
"Two tollar saxty cint."
Mike leaped to his feet as though a spring had suddenly uncoiledbeneath him, waving his arms in wild excitement, and dancing about onhis short legs.
"Two dollars an' sixty cints! Did ye hear that, now? For the love ofHivin! an' the union wages three sixty! Ye 're a dommed scab, an' it'smeself that 'll wallup ye just for luck. It's crazy Oi am to do thejob. What wud the loikes of ye work for Misther Hicks for?"
Swanson's impassive face remained imperturbable; he stroked themoustaches dangling over the corners of his dejected mouth.
"Two tollar saxty cint."
Mike glared at him, and then at the girl, his own lips puckering.
"Bedad, Oi belave the poor cr'ater do n't know anny betther. Shure, 'tis not for an O'Brien to be wastin' his toime thryin' to tache theloikes of him the great sacrets of thrade. It wud be castin' pearlsafore swine, as Father Kinny says. Did iver ye hear tell of theBoible, now?"
"Ay ban Lutheran."
"An' what's that? It's a Dimocrat Oi am, an' dom the O'Brien that'sannything else. But Oi niver knew thar was anny of thim other thingshereabout. It's no prohibitioner ye are, annyhow, fer that stuff inyer bottle wud cook a snake. Sufferin' ages! but it had an edge to itthat wud sharpen a saw. What do ye think of ther blatherin' basteannyhow, seenorita?"
The little Mexican gave sudden vent to her pent-up laughter, clappingher h
ands in such an ecstasy of delight as to cause the unemotionalSwanson to open his mild blue eyes in solemn wonder.
"He all right, I rink," she exclaimed eagerly. "He no so mooch fool asyou tink him--no, no. See, senor, he busy eat all de time dat youtalk; he has de meal, you has de fin' air. Vich ees de bettair, de airor de meat, senor? _Bueno_, I tink de laugh vas vid him."
Mr. O'Brien, his attention thus suddenly recalled to practical affairs,gazed into the emptied frying-pan, a decided expression of bewildereddespair upon his wizened face. For the moment even speech failed himas he confronted that scene of total devastation. Then he dashedforward to face the victim of his righteous wrath.
"Ye dom Swade, ye!" He shook a dirty fist beneath the other's nose."Shmell o' that! It's now Oi know ye 're a thafe, a low-down haythenthafe. What are ye sittin' thar for, grinnin' at yer betthers?"
"Two tollar saxty cint."
The startled Irishman stared at him with mouth wide open.
"An' begorry, did ye hear that, seenorita? For the love of Hivin, it'sonly a poll-parrot sittin' there ferninst us, barrin' the appetite ofhim. Saints aloive! but Oi 'd love to paste the crature av it was n'ta mortal sin to bate a dumb baste. An' he 's a Lutheran! God bemarciful an' keep me from iver ketchin' that same dis'ase, av it wudlave me loike this wan. What's that? What was it the haythen saidthen, seenorita?"
"Not von vord, senor; he only vink von eye like maybe he flirt vid me."
"The Swade did that! Holy Mother! an' wid an O'Brien here to take thepart of any dacent gurl. Wait till I strip the coat off me. It's anO'Brien that'll tache him how to trate a lady. Say, Swanson, ye son ofa gun, ye son of a say-cook, ye son--Sure, Oi 'd loike to tell ye whatye are av it was n't for the prisince of the seenorita. It's MichaelO'Brien who 's about to paste ye in the oye fer forgittin' yer manners,an' growin' too gay in good company. Whoop! begorry, it's the graneabove the red!"
There was a dull noise of a heavily struck blow. A pair of short legs,waving frantically, traversed a complete semicircle, coming down with acrash at the edge of the bushes. Through a rapidly swelling and badlydamaged optic the pessimistic O'Brien gazed up in dazed bewilderment atthe man already astride of his prostrate body. It was a regeneratedNorseman, the fierce battle-lust of the Vikings glowing in his blueeyes. With fingers like steel claws he gripped the Irishman's shirtcollar, driving his head back against the earth with every madutterance.
"Ay ban Nels Swanson!" he exploded defiantly. "Ay ban Nels Swanson!Ay ban Nels Swanson! Ay ban shovel-man by Meester Burke! Ay banLutheran! Ay ban work two tollar saxty cint! You hear dose tings?Tamn the Irish--Ay show you!"
With the swift, noiseless motion of a bird Mercedes flitted across thenarrow space, forcing her slender figure in between the twocontestants, her white teeth gleaming merrily, the bright sunshineshimmering across her black hair. Like two stars her great eyesflashed up imploringly into the Swede's angry face.
"No, no, senors! You no fight like de dogs vid me here. I not likedat, I not let you. See! you strike him, you strike me. _Dios deDios_! I not have eet so--nevah."
A strong, compelling hand fell suddenly on Winston's shoulder, and heglanced about into the grave, boyish countenance of Stutter Brown.
"Th-thar 's quite c-c-consid'able of a c-crowd comin' up the t-t-trailt-ter the 'Independence,' an' B-Bill wants yer," he announced, his calmeyes on the controversy being waged beyond in the open. "Th-thar 'llbe somethin' d-doin' presently, but I r-reckon I better s-s-straightenout t-this yere i-i-international fracas first."
Beth Norvell: A Romance of the West Page 19
