The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  The wild swinging blows of the Cornishman landed heavily from time to time, but his opponent's elbow or forearm often broke the force. The lighter man was slippery as an eel, as hard to hit as a Corbett. Meanwhile, he was cutting his foe to ribbons, slashing at him with swift drives that carried the full force of one hundred seventy-five pounds, sending home damaging blows to the body that played the mischief with his wind. The big miner's face was a projection map with wheals for mountains and with rivers represented by red trickles of blood.

  Quartering round the room they came again to the drills. Peale, panting and desperate, stooped for one of them. As he rose unsteadily Kilmeny closed, threw him hard, and fell on top. Jack beat savagely the swollen upturned face with short arm jolts until the fellow relaxed his hold with a moan.

  "Doan't 'ee kill me, mon. I've had enough," he grunted.

  Kilmeny sprang to his feet, caught up the bar of steel, and poked the prostrate man in the ribs with it.

  "Get up," he ordered. "You're a pair of cowardly brutes. Can't be decent to a couple of helpless women in your power. Can't play fair in a fight with a man half the size of one of you. Get up, I say, and throw a dipperful of water in Trefoyle's face. He's not dead by a long shot, though he deserves to be."

  Peale clambered to his feet in sulky submission and did as he was told. Slowly Trefoyle's eyelids flickered open.

  "What be wrong wi' un?" he asked, trying to sit up.

  "You got what was coming to you. Is it enough, or do you want more?"

  "Did 'ee hit me, lad. Fegs, it's enough. I give you best."

  "Then get up. We'll go back to the house for blankets and fuel. You'll sleep to-night with the horses in the tunnel."

  The two girls shivering in the hot room heard the footsteps of the returning men as they crunched the snow. Moya sat opposite the door, white to the lips, her hand resting on the table and holding the revolver. Joyce had sunk down on the bed and had covered her face with her hands.

  A cheerful voice called to them from outside.

  "All right. Everything settled. Let us in, please."

  Moya flew to the door and unbolted it. The Cornishmen came in first, and after them Kilmeny. At sight of the ravages of war Joyce gave a little cry of amazement. The big miners were covered with blood. They had the cowed hangdog look of thoroughly beaten men. Jack's face too was a sight, but he still walked springily.

  He gave curt commands and the others obeyed him without a word. Almost the first thing he did was to step to the table and fling the whisky bottle through the door into the storm.

  "We'll not need that," he said.

  One of the miners gathered up their extra blankets while the other took a load of firewood.

  As soon as they had gone Joyce cried breathlessly, "You fought them."

  Jack looked at her and his eyes softened. All men answered to the appeal of her beauty. "We had a little argument. They couldn't see it my way. But they're satisfied now."

  Moya bit her lower lip. Her eyes were shining with tears. A queer emotion welled up in her heart. But it was Joyce who put their thanks into words.

  "You saved us. You're the bravest man I ever saw," she cried.

  A deeper color rose to the embarrassed face of the young man. "I expect you didn't need any saving to speak of. The boys got too ambitious. That's about all." He was thinking that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes upon and thanking his lucky stars that he had come along in the nick of time.

  "You can say that, Mr. Kilmeny, but we know," she answered softly.

  "All right. Have it your own way, Miss Seldon," he returned with a smile.

  "You'll let us doctor your wounds, won't you?" Moya asked shyly.

  He laughed like a boy. "You're making me ashamed. I haven't any wounds. I ought to have washed the blood off before I came in, but I didn't have a chance. All I need is a basin of water and a towel."

  The girl ran to get them for him. He protested, laughing, but was none the less pleased while they hovered about him.

  "Such a dirty towel. Don't you suppose there's a clean one somewhere," Joyce said with a little moue of disgust as she handed it to him.

  He shook his head. "It's like the one in 'The Virginian'--been too popular."

  Moya gave him the scarf that had been around her head while she was riding. "Take this. No.... I want you to use it ... please."

  After he had dried his face Jack explained their disposition for the night.

  "We'll stay in the tunnel. You'll be alone here--and quite safe. No need to be in the least nervous. Make yourselves comfortable till morning if you can."

  "And you--do you mean that you're going back ... to those men?" Moya asked.

  "They're quite tame--ready to eat out of my hand. Don't worry about me."

  "But I don't want you to go. I'm afraid to be alone. Stay here with us, Mr. Kilmeny. I don't care about sleeping," Joyce begged.

  "There's nothing to be afraid of--and you need your sleep. I'll not be far away. You couldn't be safer in Goldbanks. I'll be on guard all night, you know," he reassured.

  It escaped him for the moment that Joyce was thinking about her own safety, while Moya was anxious about his, but later he was to remember it.

  He had not been gone ten minutes before Joyce was sound asleep. She trusted him and she trusted Moya, and for her that was enough. All her life she had relied on somebody else to bear the brunt of her troubles. But the girl with the powdered freckles beneath the dusky eyes carried her own burdens. She too had implicit confidence in the champion who had come out of the storm to help them and had taken his life in hand to do it. Her heart went out to him with all the passionate ardor of generous youth. She had never met such a man, so strong, so masterful, and yet so boyish.

  Her brain was far too active for slumber. She sat before the stove and went over the adventures of the past two hours. How strange that they had met him again in this dramatic fashion. Perhaps he lived at Goldbanks now and they would see more of him. She hoped so mightily, even though there persisted in her mind a picture of his blue-gray eyes paying homage to Joyce.

  CHAPTER XIII

  SHOT TO THE CORE WITH SUNLIGHT

  The storm had blown itself out before morning. A white world sparkled with flashes of sunlight when Moya opened the door of the cabin and gazed out. Looking down into the peaceful valley below, it was hard to believe that death had called to them so loudly only a few hours earlier.

  Kilmeny emerged from the shaft-house and called a cheerful good-morning across to her.

  "How did you sleep?" he shouted as he crunched across the snow toward her.

  "Not so very well. Joyce slept for both of us."

  Their smiles met. They had been comrades in the determination to shield her from whatever difficulties the situation might hold.

  "I'm glad. Is she quite herself this morning? Last night she was very tired and a good deal alarmed."

  "Yes. After you came Joyce did not worry any more. She knew you would see that everything came right."

  The color crept into his bronzed face. "Did she say so?"

  "Yes. But it was not what she said. I could tell."

  "I'm glad I could do what I did."

  The eyes that looked at him were luminous. Something sweet and mocking glowed in them inscrutably. He knew her gallant soul approved him, and his heart lifted with gladness. The beauty of her companion fascinated him, but he divined in this Irish girl the fine thread of loyalty that lifted her character out of the commonplace. Her slender, vivid personality breathed a vigor of the spirit wholly engaging.

  Joyce joined her friend in the doorway. With her cheeks still flushed from sleep and her hair a little disheveled, she reminded Jack of a beautiful crumpled rose leaf. Since her charm was less an expression of an inner quality, she needed more than Moya the adventitious aids of dress.

  The young woman's smile came out warmly at sight of Kilmeny. It was her custom always to appropriate the available man. Toward t
his bronzed young fellow with the splendid throat sloping into muscular shoulders she felt very kindly this morning. He had stood between her and trouble. He was so patently an admirer of Joyce Seldon. And on his own merits the virility and good looks of him drew her admiration. At sight of the bruises on his face her heart beat a little fast with pleasurable excitement. He had fought for her like a man. She did not care if he was a workingman. His name was Kilmeny. He was a gentleman by birth, worth a dozen Verinders.

  "Mr. Kilmeny, how can we ever thank you?"

  He looked at her and nodded gayly. "Forget it, Miss Seldon. I couldn't have done less."

  "Or more," she added softly, her lovely eyes in his.

  No change showed in the lean brown face of the man, but his blood moved faster. It was impossible to miss the appeal of sex that escaped at every graceful movement of the soft sensuous body, that glowed from the deep still eyes in an electric current flashing straight to his veins. He would have loved to touch the soft flushed cheek, the crisp amber hair clouding the convolutions of the little ears. His eyes were an index of the man, bold and possessive and unwavering. They announced him a dynamic American, one who walked the way of the strong and fought for his share of the spoils. But when she looked at him they softened. Something fine and tender transfigured the face and wiped out its sardonic recklessness.

  "The pressing question before the house is breakfast. There are bacon and flour and coffee here. Shall I make a batch of biscuits and offer you pot luck? Or do you prefer to wait till we can get to Goldbanks?"

  "What do you think?" Moya asked.

  "I think whatever you think. We'll not reach town much before noon. If you can rough it for a meal I should advise trying out the new cook. It really depends on how hungry you are."

  "I'm hungry enough to eat my boots," the Irish girl announced promptly.

  "So am I. Let's stay--if our hosts won't object," Joyce added.

  "I'm quite sure they won't," Kilmeny replied dryly. "All right. A camp breakfast it is."

  "I'm going to help you," Moya told him.

  "Of course. You'd better wash the dishes as soon as we get hot water. They're probably pretty grimy."

  He stepped into the cabin and took off his coat. Moya rolled up her sleeves to the elbows of her plump dimpled arms. Miss Seldon hovered about helplessly and wanted to know what she could do.

  The miner had not "batched" in the hills for years without having learned how to cook. His biscuits came to the table hot and flaky, his bacon was done to a turn. Even the chicory coffee tasted delicious to the hungry guests.

  With her milk-white skin, her vivid crimson lips so exquisitely turned, and the superb vitality of her youth, Joyce bloomed in the sordid hut like a flower in a rubbage heap. To her bronzed vis-a-vis it seemed that the world this morning was shimmering romance. Never before had he enjoyed a breakfast half as much. He and Miss Seldon did most of the talking, while Moya listened, the star flash in her eyes and the whimsical little smile on her lips.

  Joyce was as gay as a lark. She chattered with the childish artlessness that at times veiled her sophistication. Jack was given to understand that she loved to be natural and simple, that she detested the shams of social convention to which she was made to conform. Her big lovely eyes were wistful in their earnestness as they met his. It was not wholly a pose with her. For the moment she meant all she said. A delightful excitement fluttered her pulses. She was playing the game she liked best, moving forward to the first skirmishes of that sex war which was meat and drink to her vanity. The man attracted her as few men ever had. That nothing could come of it beyond the satisfaction of the hour did not mitigate her zest for the battle.

  They were still at breakfast when one of the Cornishmen pushed open the door and looked in. He stood looking down on them sullenly without speaking.

  "Want to see me, Peale?" asked Kilmeny.

  "Did I say I wanted to see 'ee?" demanded the other roughly.

  "Better come in and shut the door. The air's chilly."

  The battered face of his companion loomed over the shoulder of Peale. To Kilmeny it was plain that they had come with the idea of making themselves disagreeable. Very likely they had agreed to force their company upon the young women for breakfast. But the sight of their dainty grace, together with Jack's cheerful invitation, was too much for their audacity. Peale grumbled something inaudible and turned away, slamming the door as he went.

  The young miner laughed softly. If he had shown any unwillingness they would have pushed their way in. His urbanity had disarmed them.

  "They're not really bad men, you know--just think they are," he explained casually.

  "I'm afraid of them. I don't trust them," Joyce shuddered.

  "Well, I trust them while they're under my eye. The trouble with men of that stripe is that they're yellow. A game man gives you a fighting chance, but fellows of this sort hit while you're not looking. But you needn't worry. They're real tame citizens this morning."

  "Yes, they looked tame," Moya answered dryly. "So tame I'm sure they'd like to crucify you."

  "I daresay they would, but in this world a man can't get everything he would like. I've wanted two or three pleasures myself that I didn't get."

  His gaze happened to turn toward Joyce as he was speaking. He had been thinking of nothing definite, but at the meeting of their eyes something flashed into birth and passed from one to the other like an electric current. Jack knew now something that he wanted, but he did not admit that he could not get it. If she cared for him--and what else had her eyes told him in the golden glow of that electric moment?--a hundred Verinders and Lady Farquhar could not keep them apart.

  His heart sang jubilantly. He rose abruptly and left the room because he was afraid he could not veil his feeling.

  Joyce smiled happily. "Where is he going?" she asked innocently.

  Moya looked at her and then turned her eyes away. She had understood the significance of what she had seen and a door in her heart that had been open for weeks clanged shut.

  "I don't know, unless to get the horses," she said quietly.

  A few minutes later he returned, leading the animals. From the door of the shaft-house the Cornishmen watched them mount and ride away. The men smoked in sullen silence.

  [Illustration: THEY RODE THROUGH A WORLD SHOT TO THE CORE WITH SUNLIGHT. THE SNOW SPARKLED AND GLEAMED WITH IT. (p. 177)]

  Before they had ridden a hundred yards Joyce was in gay talk with Kilmeny. She had forgotten the very existence of the miners. But Moya did not forget. She had seen the expression of their faces as the horses had passed. If a chance ever offered itself they would have their revenge.

  It was a day winnowed from a lifetime of ordinary ones. They rode through a world shot to the core with sunlight. The snow sparkled and gleamed with it. The foliage of the cottonwoods, which already had shaken much of their white coat to the ground, reflected it in greens and golds and russets merged to a note of perfect harmony by the Great Artist. Though the crispness of early winter was in the air, their nostrils drew in the fragrance of October, the faint wafted perfume of dying summer.

  Beneath a sky of perfect blue they pushed along the shoulder of the hill, avoiding the draw into which snow had drifted deep. Life stormed in their veins, glowed in their flushed cheeks, rang in the care-free laughter of at least two of them. Jack broke trail, turning often in the saddle with a lithe twist of his lean muscular body, to suggest a word of caution at the bad places. Always then he discovered the deep violet eyes of Joyce Seldon with their smoldering fire. To let himself dwell upon her loveliness of fine-textured satiny skin, set off by the abundant crown of lustrous bronze hair, was to know again a quickened pulse of delight.

  When he spoke it was with the languid drawl of the Western plainsman. In humor he feigned to conceal his passion, but Joyce knew him to be alertly conscious of her every word, every turn of her pliant body.

  They reached the road, where two could ride abreast. Sometimes he was with t
he one, again with the other. Moya, who had not much to say this morning, made it easy for him to be with Joyce. She did not need to be told that he was under the allure of that young woman's beauty; and not alone of her beauty, but of that provocative stimulating something that can be defined only as the drag of sex. All men responded to it when Joyce chose to exert herself, many when she did not.

  Once he turned to point out to Moya some snow-covered mounds above the road.

  "Graves of a dozen mule-skinners killed by Indians nearly thirty years ago. My father was the only one of the party that escaped."

  Half a mile from town they met two men on horseback and exchanged news. All Goldbanks had been searching for them through the night. The Farquhar party were wild with anxiety about them.