The Fighting Shepherdess

by Lockhart, Caroline

  The time came, however, when this moment of transport and resolution seemed so long ago that it was like some misty incident of her childhood. Her body, as when a jaded horse lashed to a gallop reaches a stage where it drops to a walk from which no amount of punishment can rouse it, was refusing to respond to the spur of her will. It became an effort to walk, to swing her arms and stamp her feet, to make any brisk movement that kept the circulation going. She knew what it portended, yet was unable to make greater resistance against the lethargy of cold and exhaustion.

  The dog was still with her, close at her heels, and she pulled off her gauntlets clumsily, the act requiring a tremendous effort of will, and tried to warm her fingers in the long hair of its body; but she felt no sensation of heat and she replaced the gloves with the same effort.

  The second night was full upon her now—a night so black that she could feel the storm, but not see it. At intervals she experienced a sense of detachment—as if she were a disembodied spirit, lonely, buffeted in a white hell of torture.

  Usually the faint tinkle of a sheep bell recalled her, but each time the sound had less meaning for her, and the sheep seemed less and less important. She was staggering, her knees had an absurd fashion of giving way beneath her, but she could not prevent them. She was approaching the end of her endurance; she could not resist much longer—this her dull rambling brain told her over and over. And that curious phenomenon—that feeling of confidence and exultation that she had had away back—when was it? Long ago, anyhow—that had meant nothing—nothing—meant nothing. The Supreme Intelligence who had made things didn’t know she existed, probably. Her coming was nothing; her going was nothing. And now she was stepping off of something—she was going down hill—down hill—the first gulch she had found in her wanderings. It was full of drifts, likely she’d stumble in one and lie there—it was tiresome to keep going, and it made no difference to anybody. Then she stumbled and fell to the bottom, prone, her arms outstretched, the briars of a wild-rose bush tearing her cheek as she lay face downward in the center of it. But she did not know it—she was comfortable, very comfortable, and she could as well lie there a little while—a little while—

  Then somewhere a querulous voice was saying:

  “I told you the picture would be overexposed when you were takin’ it. You’ll never listen to me.”

  A deeper voice answered:

  “The light was stronger than I thought; but, anyway, it’s a humdinger of a negative.” Then, sharply, “Sh-ss-sh! What was that, Honey?”

  A silence fell instantly.

  “Honey!” Kate had a notion that she smiled, though her white face did not alter its expression. Her tongue moved thickly, “I like that name, Hughie.”

  Her collie whimpered and scratched again at the door of the wagon. The traveling photographer pushed it open and the animal sprang inside, leaping from one to the other in his gratitude.

  “It’s a sheep dog!” the man cried in consternation. “There’s a herder lost somewhere.”

  “Can we do anything—such a night?” the old woman asked doubtfully. “Can anyone be alive in it?”

  “Light the lantern—quick! Maybe I can track the dog back before the snow fills them. He might be down within a stone’s throw of the wagon.” Snatching the lantern from her hand he admonished his wife as he stepped out into the wilderness:

  “You-all keep hollerin’ so I can hear you. I kin git lost mighty easy.”

  The light became a blur almost instantly, but he was not fifty feet from the wagon when he shouted:

  “I got him!” Then—his voice shrilled in astonishment—“Sufferin’ Saints! It’s a woman!”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XV

  ONE MORE WHIRL

  Mr. Toomey folded his comfortable bathrobe over his new pajamas and tied the silken cord and tassel, remarking casually:

  “I think we’ll have breakfast here this morning.”

  The flowing sleeve of Mrs. Toomey’s pink silk negligee fell away from her bare arm as she stood arranging her hair before the wide-topped dresser of Circassian walnut that looked so well against a background of pale gray wall paper with a delicate pink border.

  “They charge extra,” she reminded him.

  Toomey was already at the telephone.

  “Whole ones? Certainly—and Floridas—be particular. Eggs—soft to medium. Toast for two, without butter. And coffee? Of course, coffee. Send a paper with it, will you?”

  As he hung up the receiver, “This is our last breakfast on earth, Old Dear—we’re going home to-morrow.”

  Mr. Toomey repaired to the adjoining bathroom with its immaculate porcelain and tiling, where he inspected his chin critically in the shaving mirror and commented upon the rapid growth of his beard, which he declared became tropical in a temperate climate.

  “Just to be warm and not have to carry ashes—it’s heavenly!” ecstatically sighed Mrs. Toomey.

  “Forget it!” laconically. “What makes ’em so slow with that order?” Mr. Toomey lighted a gold-tipped cigarette and paced the floor impatiently.

  Mrs. Toomey could not entirely rid herself of the notion that she was dreaming. A lace petticoat hanging over the back of a chair and a brocaded pink corset over another contributed to the illusion. She could not yet believe they were hers, any more than was the twenty-dollar creation in the hat box on the shelf in the closet.

  During their week’s stay in Chicago Mrs. Toomey had gone about mostly in a state which resembled the delightful languor of hasheesh, untroubled, irresponsible, save when something reminded her that after Chicago—the cataclysm. Yet she had not yielded easily to Toomey’s importunities. It had required all his powers of persuasion to overcome her scruples, her ingrained thrift and natural prudence.

  “We need the change; we’ve lived too long in a high altitude, and we’re nervous wrecks, both of us,” he had argued. “We should get in touch with things and the right kind of people. A trip like this is an investment—that’s the way you want to look at it. If you want to win anything in this world you’ve got to take chances. It’s the plungers, not the plodders, who make big winnings. I gotta hunch that I’m going to get in touch with somebody that’ll take an interest in me.”

  Left to herself, Mrs. Toomey would have paid something on their most urgent debts and bought prudently, but she told herself that Jap was as likely to be right as she was, and the argument that he might meet some one who would be of benefit to him was convincing; so finally she had consented. The sense of unreality and wonder which Mrs. Toomey experienced when she saw her trunk going was surpassed only by the astonishment of the neighbors, who all but broke the glass in their various windows as they pressed against it to convince themselves that the sight was not an optical illusion.

  The Toomeys had traveled in a stateroom, over Mrs. Toomey’s feeble protest, and the best room with bath in one of the best hotels in Chicago was not too good for Mr. Toomey. They had thought to stay three weeks, with reasonable economy, and return with a modest bank balance, but the familiar environment was too much for Toomey, who dropped back into his old way of living as though he never had been out of it, while the new clothes and the brightness of the atmosphere of prosperity after the years of anxiety and poverty drugged Mrs. Toomey’s conscience and caution into a profound slumber—the latter to be awakened only when, counting the banknotes in her husband’s wallet, she was startled to discover that they had little more than enough to pay their hotel bill and return to Prouty in comfort. If either of them remembered the source from which their present luxurious enjoyment came, neither mentioned it.

  The breakfast and service this morning were perfect and Mrs. Toomey sighed contentedly as she crumpled her napkin and reached for the paper.

  “There’s been a terrible blizzard west of the Mississippi,” she murmured from the depths of the Journal.

  “I’m glad we’ve missed a little misery,” Toomey replied carelessly. “It’ll mean late trains and all the rest of
it. We’d better stay over until they’re running again on schedule.”

  Mrs. Toomey ignored, if she heard, the suggestion, and continued:

  “It says that the stock, and the sheep in particular, have died like flies on the range, and scores of herders have been frozen.”

  “There’s more herders where they came from.” Toomey brushed the ashes from his cigarette into the excavated grapefruit, and yawned and stretched like a cat on its cushion.

  “Think of something pleasant—what are we going to do this evening?”

  “We mustn’t do anything,” Mrs. Toomey protested quickly. “If we spend any more we will have to get a check cashed, and that might be awkward, since we know no one; besides, we can’t afford it. Let’s have a quiet evening.”

  “A quiet evening!” Toomey snorted. “That’s my idea of hell. I’ll tell you about me, Old Dear—I’m going to have one more whirl if I have to walk back to Prouty, and you might as well go with me.”

  Since he was determined, Mrs. Toomey arrived at the same conclusion also, for not only did she too shudder at the thought of a quiet evening, but her presence was more or less of a restraint upon his extravagant impulses. She endeavored to soothe her uneasiness by telling herself that they could make up for it by some economy in traveling. And just one more good play—what, after all, did it really matter?

  The theater was only four blocks from the hotel, but, as a matter of course, Toomey called a taxicab. These modern conveniences were an innovation that had come during his absence from “civilization” and his delight in them was not unlike the ecstasy of a child riding the flying horses. It availed Mrs. Toomey nothing to declare that she preferred exercise and they arrived at the theater in a taxi. At sight of the box office Toomey forgot his promise to buy inexpensive seats, but asked for the best obtainable.

  Carefree and debonair, between acts Mr. Toomey strolled in the lobby smoking and looking so very much in his element that Mrs. Toomey temporarily forgot her disquietude in being proud of him. His dinner jacket was not the latest cut, but after giving it much consideration they had decided that it was not far enough off to be noticeable, and how very handsome and assured he looked as he sauntered with the confident air of a man who had only to entertain a whim to gratify it.

  Such is the psychology of clothes and the effect of environment upon some temperaments that that was the way Mr. Toomey felt about it. Prouty and importunate creditors did not exist for him. This condition of mental intoxication continued when the play was over and, fearful, Mrs. Toomey spoke hastily of going home immediately.

  “I’m hungry,” he asserted. “We’ll go somewhere first and eat something.”

  “Let’s have sandwiches sent up to the room,” she pleaded.

  “Why not a bow-wow from the night-lunch cart I noticed in the alley? I like the feeling of the mustard running between my fingers,” derisively.

  “Oh, Jap, we oughtn’t to—we really ought not!”

  But he might have been deaf, for all the attention he paid to her earnest protests as he turned into one of the brilliantly lighted restaurants which he had previously patronized and that he liked particularly. There was a glitter in his eyes which increased her uneasiness, and a recklessness in his manner that was not reassuring.

  “I may go to my grave without ever seeing another lobster,” he said as he ordered shellfish. “What will you have to drink?” while the waiter hovered.

  “Nothing to-night,” she replied, startled.

  “Different here, Old Dear, I’m thirsty. The wine list, waiter.”

  That was the beginning. From the time the champagne and oysters arrived until long past midnight Mrs. Toomey experienced all the sensations that come to the woman who must sit passive and watch her husband pass through the several stages of intoxication. And in addition, she had the knowledge that he could less afford the money he was spending than the waiter who served him.

  In high spirits at first, with his natural drollness, stimulated to brilliancy, his sallies brought smiles from those at adjoining tables. Then he became in turn boastful, arrogant, argumentative, thick of speech, finally, and slow of comprehension, but obstinate always.

  “Goin’ back jail 'morra, Ol' Dear—goin’ finish out my life sentence,” when she reminded him of the lateness of the hour and her weariness, and he resented her interference so fiercely when she countermanded an order that she dared not repeat it.

  “You lis'en me, waiter, thish my party. Might think I was town drunkard—village sot way my wife tryin’ flag me.” Mrs. Toomey colored painfully at the attention he attracted.

  He turned to a late comer who had seated himself at a small table across the narrow aisle from them. “My wife’s a great disappointment to me—no sport—never was, never will be. 'Morra,” addressing himself to the stranger exclusively, “goin’ back to hear the prairie dogs chatter—goin’ listen to the sagebrush tick—back one thousan’ miles from an oyster—”

  “Jap!” Mrs. Toomey interrupted desperately, “we must be going. Everyone’s leaving.”

  “We’ll be closing shortly,” the waiter hinted.

  Toomey blinked at the check he placed before him.

  “Can’t see whether tha’s twenty dollars, or two hundred dollars or two thousand dollars.”

  The waiter murmured the amount, but not so softly but that Mrs. Toomey paled when she heard it. He had not enough to pay it, she was sure of it, for while he had brought from the room an amount that would have been ample for any ordinary theater supper, wine had not been in his calculations.

  Mrs. Toomey looked on anxiously while he produced the contents of his pocket.

  “Sorry, sir, but it isn’t enough,” said the waiter, after counting the notes he tossed upon the plate.

  Toomey found the discovery amusing.

  “You s'prise me,” he chuckled.

  “Sorry, sir, but—” the waiter persisted.

  With a swift transition of mood Toomey demanded haughtily:

  “Gue'sh you don' know who I am?”

  “No, sir.”

  Toomey tapped the lapel of his jacket impressively with his forefinger.

  “I’m Jasper Toomey of Prouty, Wyoming.”

  The waiter received the information without flinching.

  “Call up the Blackstone and they’ll tell you I’ll be in to-morra an’ shettle.” He wafted the waiter away grandly, that person shrugging a dubious shoulder as he vanished. “They’ll tell 'im the f'ancial standin’ of Jasper Toomey—shirtingly.”

  The waiter returned almost immediately.

  “The hotel knows you only as a guest, sir.”

  “Thish is insult—d‘lib’rate insult.” Mr. Toomey rose to his feet and stood unsteadily. “Send manager to me immedially—immedially!”

  “He’s busy, sir,” replied the waiter with a touch of impatience, “but he said you’d have to settle before leaving.”

  Mrs. Toomey, crimson with mortification and panic-stricken as visions of a patrol wagon and station house rose before her, interrupted when Toomey would have continued to argue.

  “Jap, stay here while I go to the hotel—I can take a taxi and be back in a few minutes.”

  Toomey refused indignantly. He declared that not only would this be a reflection upon his honesty, but equivalent to pawning him.

  “How’d I know,” he demanded shrewdly, “that you’d ever come back to redeem me?”

  As Mrs. Toomey cast a look of despair about, her eyes met those of the man who was sitting alone at the table across the aisle. Even in her distress she had observed him when he had entered, for his height, breadth of shoulder, erectness of carriage—together with the tan and a certain unconventional freedom of movement which, to the initiated, proclaimed him an outdoor westerner, made him noticeable.

  He was fifty—more, possibly—with hair well grayed and the face of a man to whom success had not come easily. Yet that he had succeeded was not to be doubted, for neither his face nor bearing were those of
a man who could be, or had been, defeated. His appearance—substantial, unostentatious—inspired confidence in his integrity and confidence in his ability to cope with any emergency. The lines in his strong face suggested something more than the mere marks of obstacles conquered, of battles lost and won in the world of business—they came from a deeper source than surface struggles. His mouth, a trifle austere, had a droop of sadness, and in his calm gray eyes there was the look of understanding which comes not only from wide experience but from suffering.

  Mrs. Toomey had the feeling that he comprehended perfectly every emotion she was experiencing—her fright, her mortification, her disgust at Jap’s maudlin speech and foolish appearance. But it was something more than these things which had caused her to look at him frequently. He reminded her of some one, yet she could not identify the resemblance. In their exchange of glances she now caught a sympathetic flash; then he rose immediately and came over.

  “May I be of service, brother?” As he spoke he indicated the small button he wore which corresponded to another on Toomey’s waistcoat. With a slight inclination of the head towards Mrs. Toomey, “If you’ll allow me—”

  The relieved waiter promptly fled with the note he laid on the plate.

  “These situations are a little awkward for the moment,” he added, smiling slightly.

  “Mighty nice of you, Old Top!” Toomey shook hands with him. “Lemme buy you somethin’. Wha’ll you have?”

  The stranger declined and thanked him.

  Mrs. Toomey expressed her gratitude incoherently.

  “You must leave your name and address; we’ll mail you a check to-morrow.”

  “I always stay at the Auditorium. Mail addressed to me there will be forwarded.” He laid his visiting card upon the table.