CHAPTER IV
FLIGHT
There was a girl named Joan who followed Pierre Landis because he laidhis hand upon her wrist, and there was another Joan who fled up themountain-side at sight of him, as though the fire that had oncetouched her shoulder had burnt its way into her heart. Then there wasa third Joan, a Joan astray. It was this Joan that had come to Lazy-YRanch and had cooked for and bullied "the outfit"--a Joan of set faceand bitter tongue, whose two years' lonely battle with life hadtwisted her youth out of its first comely straightness. In Joan'sbrief code of moral law there was one sin--the dealings of a marriedwoman with another man. When Pierre's living and seeking face lookedup toward her where she stood on the mountain-side above Prosper'scabin, she felt for the first time that she had sinned, and so, forthe first time, she was a sinner, and the inevitable agony of soulbegan.
She fled and hid till dark, then prowled about till she knew that WenHo was alone in the house. She came like a spirit from hell andquestioned him.
"What did the men ask? What did you tell them?"
The men had asked for a lady. He had told them, as Prosper had onceinstructed him, that no lady was living there, that the man had justgone. They had been satisfied and had left. But Joan was still interror. Pierre must never find her now. She had accepted the lie of astranger, had left her husband for dead, had made no effort toascertain the truth, and had "dealings with another man." Joan sat injudgment and condemned herself to loneliness. She turned herself outfrom all her old life as though she had been Cain, and, following WenHo's trail over the mountains, had gone into strange lands to work forher bread. She called herself "Jane" and her ferocity was the armorfor her beauty. Always she worked in fear of Pierre's arrival, and, assoon as she had saved money enough for further traveling, she movedon. She worked by preference on lonely ranches as cook or harvester,and it was after two years of such life that she had drifted intoYarnall's kitchen. She was then greatly changed, as a woman who worksto the full stretch of her strength, who suffers privation andhardship, who gives no thought to her own youth and beauty, and who,moreover, suffers under a scourge of self-scorn and fear, is bound tochange. Of all the people that had seen her after months of suchliving, Jasper Morena was the only one to find her beautiful. But withhis sensitive observation he had seen through the shell to thesweetness underneath; for surely Joan was sweet, a Friday's child. Itwas good that Jasper had torn the skin from her wound, good that hehad broken up the hardness of her heart. She left him and Yarnall thatafternoon and went away to her cabin in the trees and lay face down onthe bare boards of the floor and was young again. Waves of longing forlove and beauty and adventure flooded her. For a while she had beenvery beautiful and had been very passionately loved; for a while shehad been surrounded by beauty and taught its meanings. She had fledfrom it all. She hated it, yes, but she longed for it with every fiberof her being. The last two years were scalded away. She was Joan, whohad loved Pierre; Joan, whom Prosper Gael had loved.
Toward morning, dawn feeling with white fingers through the pineboughs into her uncurtained window, Joan stopped her weeping and stoodup. She was very tired and felt as though all the hardness andstrength had been beaten from her heart. She opened her door andlooked at pale stars and a still, slowly brightening world. In ahollow below the pines a stream ran and poured its hoarse, hurryingvoice into the silence. Joan bent under the branches, undressed andbathed. The icy water shocked life back into her spirit. She began totingle and to glow. In spite of herself she felt happier. She had beenstony for so long, neither sorrowful nor glad; now, after the night ofsharp pain, she was aware of the gladness of morning. She came up fromher plunge, glowing and beautiful, with loose, wet hair.
In the corral the men were watering their teams; above them on theedge of a mesa, against the rosy sky, the other ponies, out all nighton the range, were trooping, driven by a cowboy who darted here andthere on his nimble pony, giving shrill cries. In the clear air everysyllable was sharp to the ear, every tint and line sharp to the eye.It was beautiful, very beautiful, and it was near and dear to her,native to her--this loveliness of quick action, of inarticulatecalling to dumb beasts, of work, of simple, often repeated beginnings.She was glad that she was working with her hands. She twisted up herhair and went over to the ranch-house where she began soberly andthankfully to light her kitchen fire.
It was after breakfast, two or three mornings later, when a strangeron a chestnut pony rode into Yarnall's ranch, tied his pony to a tree,and, striding across the cobbled square, came to knock at the officedoor. At the moment, Yarnall, on the other side of the house, wassaying farewell to his guests, and helping the men pile the baggageinto the two-seated wagon, so this other visitor, getting no answer tohis knock, turned and looked about the court. He did not, it wasevident, mind waiting. It was to be surmised from the look of him thathe was used to it; patient and not to be discouraged by delay. He wasa very brown young man of quite astounding beauty and his face hadbeen schooled to keenness and restraint. He was well-dressed, veryclean, an outdoor man, a rider, but a man who had, in some sense,arrived. He had the inimitable stamp of achievement. He had been harddriven--the look of that, too, was there; he had been driven to morethan ordinary effort. One of the men, seeing him, walked over andspoke respectfully.
"You want to see Mr. Yarnall?"
"Yes, sir." The man's eyes were searching the ranch-house wistfullyagain. "I would like to see him if I can. I have some questions to askhim."
"He's round the house, gettin' rid of a bunch of dudes. Some job. Bothhands tied up. Will you go round or wait?"
The stranger dropped to his heels, squatted, and rolled a cigarette.
"I'll wait," he murmured. "You can let him know when the dudes maketheir get-away. He'll get round to me. My name? It won't mean anythingto him--Pierre Landis."
He did not go round the house, and Yarnall, being very busy andperturbed for some time after the departure of his guests, did not getround to him till nearly noon. By that time he was sitting on thestep, his back against the wall, still smoking and still wistfullyobservant of his surroundings.
He stood up when Yarnall came.
"Sorry," said the latter; "that fool boy didn't tell me you were heretill ten minutes ago. Come in. You'll stop for dinner--if we get anyto-day."
"Thank you," said Pierre.
He came in and talked and stayed for dinner. Yarnall was used to theWestern fashion of doing business. He knew that it would be a longtime before the young man would come to his point. But the Englishmanwas in no hurry, for he liked his visitor and found his talk divertingenough. Landis had been in Alaska--a lumber camp. He had risen to beforeman and now he was off for a vacation, but had to go back soon. Hehad been everywhere. It seemed to Yarnall that the stranger hadvisited every ranch in the Rocky Mountain belt.
After dinner, strolling beside his host toward his horse, Pierrespoke, and before Yarnall had heard a word he knew that the long delayhad been caused by suppressed emotion. Pierre, when he did ask hisquestion, was white to the lips.
"I've taken a lot of your time," he said slowly. "I came to ask youabout someone. I heard that you had a woman on your ranch, a woman whocame in and didn't give you any history. I want to see her if I may."He was actually fighting an unevenness of breath, and Yarnall,unemotional as he was, was gripped with sympathetic suspense. "Iwant," stammered the young man, "to know her name."
Yarnall swore. "Her name, as she gave it," said he, "is Jane. But, myboy, you can't see her. She left this morning."
Pierre raised a white, tense face.
"Left?" He turned as if he would run after her.
"Yes, sir. These people I've had here took her away with them. Thatis, they've been urging her to go, but she'd refused. Then, suddenly,this morning, just as they were putting the trunks in, up came Jane,white as chalk, asking them to take her with them, said she must go.Well, sir, they rigged her up with some traveling clothes and droveaway with her. That was six hours ago. By now they're in th
e train,bound for New York."
Yarnall's guest looked at him without speaking, and Yarnall nervouslywent on, "She's been with us about six months, Landis, and I don'tknow anything about her. She was tall, gray eyes, black hair, slowspeaking, and with the kind of voice you'd be apt to notice ... yes, Isee she's the girl you've been looking for. I can give you the NewYork people's address, but first, for Jane's sake,--I'm a pretty goodfriend of hers, I think a lot of Jane,--I'll have to know what youwant with her--what she is to you."
Pierre's pupils widened till they all but swallowed the smoke-colorediris.
"She is my wife," he said.
Again Yarnall swore. But he lit a cigarette and took his time aboutanswering. "Well, sir," he said, "you must excuse me, but--it wasbecause she saw you, I take it, that Jane cut off this morning. That'sclear. Now, I don't know what would make a girl run off from herhusband. She might have any number of reasons, bad and good, but itseems to me that it would be a pretty strong one that would make agirl run off, with a look such as she wore, from a man like you. Didyou treat her well, Landis?"
It had the effect of a lash taken by a penitent. The man shrank alittle, whitened, endured. "I can't tell you how I treated her," hesaid in a dangerous voice; "it don't bear tellin'. But--I want herback. I was--I was--that was three years ago; I am more like a mannow. You'll give me the people's name, their address?..."
Pierre laid his hand on the older man's wrist and gave it a queerurgent and beseeching shake.
After a moment of searching scrutiny, Yarnall bent his head.
"Very well," said he shortly; "come in."
The Branding Iron Page 21
