As they harkened Ward's voice rose clearly. "You can't miss the camp," he was saying, as if speaking to some one at a distance. "Just keep the trail in the snow and you'll find them. I'm sorry we can't put you up—but you see how it is."
"They're going!" exclaimed Alice. "Thank God, they're going!"
"It can't be they'll go without searching the shack," the fugitive muttered, in no measure relaxing his attitude of watchful menace. "They're playing a game on us."
Again the latch clicked, and this time it was Ward who confronted the outlaw's revolver mouth.
"It's all right," Ward called, instantly understanding the situation. "They're gone. The old man was about played out, for they've been fighting snow all day, but I told him we couldn't take care of them here and they have gone on down to the camp. He thinks you got over the divide. You are all right for the present."
"They'll come back," replied the other. "It only puts the deal off a few hours. They'll return, trailin' the whole camp after them. What can I do? My horse is down there in the herd."
"That's bad," exclaimed Ward. "I wonder if I could get him for you?"
"If I had him he's weak and hungry, and the high places are feet deep in drifts. It doesn't signify. I'm corralled any way you look at it, and the only thing left is to fight."
"There's our trail to the glacier," Ward musingly suggested; "it's a pretty deep furrow—you might make it that way."
A spark of light leaped into the man's eyes. "How far up does it run? Where does it end?"
"In Glacier Basin, just at timber-line."
The outlaw pondered, speaking his thought aloud. "From there across to the Indian reservation there isn't a wolf track.... It's a man's job crossing there, almost sure death, but it's my only show." He had replaced his weapon in his belt and was weighing his chance, his eyes fixed on Alice's face. To leave this shelter, this warm circle of light, this sweet girlish presence, and plunge into the dark, the cold and the snow, was hard. No one but a man of unconquerable courage would have considered it. This man was both desperate and heroic. "It's my only chance and I'll take it," he said, drawing his breath sharply. "I'll need your prayers," he added, grimly, with eyes that saw only the girl. "If I fail you'll find me up there. I carry my sleeping-powder with me." He touched his revolver as he spoke.
Alice's mind, sweeping out over that desolate expanse, had a moment's vision of him as he would appear toiling across those towering cliffs, minute as a fly, and her heart grew small and sick.
"Why don't you stay and take your lawful punishment?" she asked. "You will surely perish up there in the cold. Wait for sunlight at least."
"I am ready to stay and to die here, near you," he replied, with a significant glance.
"No, no, not that!" she cried out. "Talk to him, Freeman; persuade him to give himself up. I've done my best to influence him. Don't let him uselessly sacrifice himself."
Ward perceived something hidden in her voice, some emotion which was more than terror, deeper than pity, but his words were grave and kindly. "It is a frightful risk, young man, but the trail to the glacier is your only open road. The sheriff is tired. Even if he finds out that you are here he may not come back to-night. He will know you cannot escape. You can't stir without leaving a telltale mark. If you could only get below the snow on the west slope—"
"Whichever trail I take it's good-by," interrupted the fugitive, still addressing Alice. "If there was anything to live for—if you'd say the word!"—she knew what he meant—"I'd stay and take my schooling." He waited a moment, and she, looking from his asking face to Ward's calm brow, could not utter a sound. What could she promise? The outlaw's tone softened to entreaty. "If you'll only say I may see you again on the other side of the range 'twill keep my heart warm. Can't you promise me that? It's mighty little."
He was going to almost certain death, and she could not refuse this. "You may write to me—" she faltered. "You know my address—"
He struck the little book in his pocket. "Yes, I have it safe. Then I may see you again?"
Alice, supported by Mrs. Adams, unsteadily rose. "Yes, yes, only go. They are coming back! I can hear them."
He took her hand. "Good-by," he said, chokingly. "You've given me heart." He bent swiftly and kissed her forehead. "I'll win! You'll hear from me."
"Hurry!" she wildly cried. "I hear voices!"
He caught up his hat and opened the door. As he faced them his lips were resolute and his eyes glowing. "It's only good night," he said, and closed the door behind him.
"Hold!" shouted Ward. "You must take some food." He tore the door open. "Wait—"
Even as he spoke a pistol-shot resounded through the night. It cut through the deathly silence of the forest like a spiteful curse, and was answered by another—then, after a short pause, a swift-tearing volley followed.
"They are killing him!" cried Alice.
* * *
They brought him in and laid him at her feet. He had requested this, but when she bent to peer into his face he had gone beyond speech. Limp and bloody and motionless he lay, with eyes of unfathomable regret and longing, staring up at her, and as the men stood about with uncovered heads she stooped to him, forgetful of all else; knelt to lay her hand upon his brow.
"Poor boy! Poor boy!" she said, her eyes blinded with tears.
His hand stirred, seeking her own, and she took it and pressed it in both of hers. "Jesus be merciful!" she prayed, softly.
He smiled faintly in acknowledgment of her presence and her prayer, and in this consolation died.
Wonderingly, with imperious frown, she rose and confronted the sheriff. "How is it that you are unhurt? Did he not fight?"
"That's what I can't understand, miss," he answered. "He fired only once, and then into the air. 'Pears like he wanted to die."
Alice understood. His thought was of her. "You shall hear as little as possible," he had said.
"And you killed him—as he surrendered," she exclaimed, bitterly, and turned toward the dead man, whose face was growing very peaceful now, and with a blinding pain in her eyes she bent and laid a final caressing hand upon his brow.
As she faced the sheriff again she said, with merciless severity: "I'd rather be in his place than yours." Then, with a tired droop in her voice, she appealed to Ward: "Take me away from here. I'm tired of this savage world."
* * *
THE LEASER
—the tenderfoot hay-roller from the prairies—still tries his luck in some abandoned tunnel—sternly toiling for his sweetheart far away.
* * *
VIII
THE LEASER
The only passenger in the car who really interested me was a burly young fellow who sat just ahead of me, and who seemed to be something more than a tourist, for the conductor greeted him pleasantly and the brakeman shook his hand. We were climbing to Cripple Creek by way of the Short Line, but as "the sceneries" were all familiar to me, I was able to study my fellow-passengers.
The man before me was very attractive, although he was by no interpretation a gentle type. On the contrary, he looked to be the rough and ready American, rough in phrase and ready to fight. His corduroy coat hunched about his muscular shoulders in awkward lines, and his broad face, inclining to fat, was stern and harsh. He appeared to be about thirty-five years of age.
The more I studied him the more I hankered to know his history. The conductor, coming through, hailed him with:
"Well, gettin' back, eh? Had a good trip?"
Once or twice the miner—he was evidently a miner—leaned from the window and waved his hat to some one on the crossing, shouted a cheery, "How goes it?" and the brakeman asked:
"How did you find the East?"
From all this I deduced that the miner had been away on a visit to New York, or Boston, or Washington.
As we rose the air became so cool, so clear, so crisp, that we seemed to be entering a land of eternal dew and roses, and as our car filled with the delicious scent of pine branches
and green grasses, the miner, with a solemn look on his face, took off his hat and, turning to me, said, with deep intonation:
"This is what I call air. This is good for what ails me."
"You've been away," I stated rather than asked.
"I've been back East—back to see the old folks—first time in eleven years."
"What do you call East?" I pursued.
"Anything back of the Missouri River," he replied, smiling a little. "In this case it was Michigan—near Jackson."
"Citizen of the camp?" I nodded up the cañon.
"Yes, I'm workin' a lease on Bull Hill."
"How's the old camp looking?"
"All shot to pieces. Half the houses empty, and business gone to pot. It's a purty yellow proposition now."
"You don't say! It was pretty slow when I was there last, but I didn't suppose it had gone broke. What's the matter of it?"
"Too many monopolists. All the good properties have gone into one or two hands. Then these labor wars have scared operators away. However, I'm not complainin'. I've made good on this lease of mine." He grinned boyishly. "I've been back to flash my roll in the old man's face. You see, I left the farm rather sudden one Sunday morning eleven years ago, and I'd never been back." His face changed to a graver, sweeter expression. "My sister wrote that mother was not very well and kind o' grievin' about me, so, as I was making good money, I thought I could afford to surprise the old man by slapping him on the back. You see, when I left, I told him I'd never darken his door again—you know the line of talk a boy hands out to his dad when he's mad—and for over ten years I never so much as wrote a line to any of the family."
As he mused darkly over this period, I insinuated another question. "What was the trouble?"
"That's just it! Nothing to warrant anything more than a cuss-word, and yet it cut me loose. I was goin' around now and then with a girl the old man didn't like—or rather, my old man and her old man didn't hitch—and, besides, her old man was a kind of shiftless cuss, one o' these men that raised sparrows in his beard, and so one Sunday morning, as I was polishin' up the buggy to go after Nance, who but dad should come out and growl:
"'Where ye goin' with that buggy?'
"'None o' your dam' business,' I snaps back, hot as hell in a secunt, 'but just to touch you up, I'll tell you. I'm goin' over to see Nance McRae.'
"Well, sir, that set him off. 'Not with my horses,' says he, and, grabbin' the buggy by the thills, he sent it back into the shed. Then he turned on me:
"'If you want to see that girl, you walk! I won't have you usin' my tired animals to cart such trash—'
"I stopped him right there. He was a big, raw-boned citizen, but I was a husky chunk of a lad myself and ready to fight.
"'Don't you speak a word against Nance,' I says, 'for if you do I'll waller ye right here and now; and as for your horse and buggy, you may keep 'em till the cows come home. Here's where I get off. You'll never see me again.'
"Gee! I was hot! I went in, packed up my grip, and hit the first train for the West."
"Just as thousands of other angry boys have done," I said, realizing to the minutest detail this scene. "They never think of going East."
"No, the West is the only place for a man in trouble—at least, so it seems to me."
"Where did you go? What did you do?"
He mused again as if recalling his struggles. "I dropped off in Kansas and got a job on a farm and fussed around there for the fall and winter. Then I got the minin' fever and came to Victor. Of course, there wasn't anything for a grass-cutter like me to do in the hills but swing a pick. I didn't like underground work, and so I went on a ranch again. Well, I kept tryin' the minin' game off and on, prospectin' here and there, and finally I got into this leasin' business, and two years ago I secured a lease on the 'Red Cent' and struck it good and plenty. Oh, I don't intend to say it's any Portland—but it pays me and I've been stackin' up some few dollars down at the Commercial Bank, and feelin' easy."
The man's essential sturdiness of character came out as he talked, and his face lost the heavy and rather savage look it had worn at first. I had taken a seat beside him by this time and my sincere interest in his affairs seemed to please him. He was eager to talk, as one who had been silent for a long time.
I led him back to the point of most interest to me. "And so at last you relented and went home? I hope you found the old folks both alive? Did they know where you were?"
"Yes. My sister saw my name in a paper—when I made my stake—and wrote, and mother used to send word—used to mention dad occasionally." He laughed silently. "It sure is great fun, this goin' back to the home pasture with a fat wad in your pants pocket—Lord! I owned the whole town."
"Tell me about it!" I pleaded.
He was ready to comply. "Our house stood near the railway, about four miles this side of Jackson, and you bet I had my head out of the winder to see if it was all there. It was. It looked just the same, only the old man had painted it yellow—and seemed like I could see mother settin' on the porch. I'd had it all planned to hire the best automobile in town and go up there in shape to heal sore eyes—but changed my plan.
"'I'll give 'em more of a shock if I walk out and pretend to be poor and kind o' meek,' I says to myself.
"So I cached my valise at the station and I wallered out there through the dust—it was June and a dry spell and hot. Judas priest! I thought I'd sweat my wad into pulp before I got there—me just down from the high country! On the way I got to wonderin' about Nancy. 'Is she alive, I wonder?'
"Do you mean to say you left her without a word of good-by?"
He looked down at his knee and scratched a patch of grease there. "That's what! I was so blame mad I cut loose of the whole outfit. Once or twice sis had mentioned Nance in a casual kind of way, but as I didn't bite—she had quit fishin', and so I was all in the dark about her. She might 'ave been dead or married or crazy, for all I knew. However, now that I was on my way back with nineteen thousand dollars in the bank and a good show for more, I kind o' got to wonderin' what she was sufferin' at."
"I hope she was married to a banker in town and the owner of an electric brougham. 'Twould have served you right."
He smiled again and resumed his story. "By the time I reached the old gate I was dusty as a stage-coach, and this old corduroy suit made me look as much like a tramp as anybody. As I came onto the old man he was waterin' a span o' horses at the well. Everything looked about the same, only a little older—he was pretty gray and some thinner—and I calls out kind o' meek-like:
"'Can I get a job here, mister?'
"He looked me over a spell, then says, 'No, for I'm purty well supplied with hands.'
"'What you need is a boss,' I says, grinnin'.
"Then he knew me, but he didn't do no fancy start—he just growled out kind o' surly:
"'I'm competent to do all the bossin' on this place,' he says.
"'You may think so,' I joshed him, 'but if I couldn't keep a place lookin' a little slicker 'n this, I'd sell out and give some better man a chance.'
"Did that faze him? Not on your life. He checked up both horses before he opened his mouth again.
"'You don't look none too slick yourself. How comes it you're trampin' this hot weather?'
"I see what he was driving at and so I fed him the dope he wanted.
"'Well, I've had hard luck,' I says. 'I've been sick.'
"'You don't look sick,' he snapped out, quick as a flash. 'You look tolerable husky. You 'pear like one o' these chaps that eat up all they earn—eat and drink and gamble,' he went on, pilin' it up. 'I don't pity tramps a bit; they're all topers.'
"I took it meek as Moses.
"'Well,' I says, 'I'm just out of the hospital, and whilst I may seem husky, I need a good quiet place and a nice easy job for a while. Moreover, I'm terrible hungry.'
"'You go 'long up to the house,' he says, 'and tell the girl in the kitchen to hand you out a plate of cold meat. I'll be along in a minut
e.'
"And off he went to the barn, leavin' me shakin' with his jolt. He was game all right! He figured me out as the prodigal son, and wa'n't goin' to knuckle. He intended for me to do all the knee exercise. I drifted along up the path toward the kitchen.
"Judas! but it did seem nice and familiar. It was all so green and flowery after camp. There ain't a tree or a patch of green grass left in Cripple; but there, in our old yard, were lylock-trees, and rose-bushes climbin' the porch, and pinks and hollyhocks—and beehives, just as they used to set—and clover. Say, it nearly had me snifflin'. It sure did."
The memory of it rather pinched his voice as he described it, but he went on.
"Of course I couldn't live down there now—it's too low, after a man has breathed such air as this."
He looked out at the big clouds soaring round Pike's Peak.
"But the flowers and the grass they did kind o' get me. I edged round on the front side of the house, and, sure enough, there sat mother, just as she used to—in the same old chair.
"Cap, I want to tell you, I didn't play no circus tricks on her. Her head had grown white as snow and she looked kind o' sad and feeble. I began to understand a little of the worry I'd been to her. I said good evening, and she turned and looked at me. Then she opened her arms and called out my name."
His voice choked unmistakably this time, and it was a minute or two before he resumed.
"No jokes, no lies doin' there! I opened right up to her. I told her I'd done well, but that I didn't want father to know it just yet, and we sit there holdin' hands when the old man hove round the corner.
"'Stephen,' says mother, kind o' solemn, 'here's our son Edward.'
"Did the old man wilt, or climb the line fence and offer to shake hands? Nitsky! He just shoved one hip onto the edge of the porch and remarked:
"'Does this dry spell reach as fur as where you've been?'"
He broke into silent laughter again, and I joined him. This was all so deeply characteristic of the life I had known in my youth that I writhed with delight. I understood the duel of wits and wills. I could see it proceed as my companion chuckled.
They of the High Trails Page 19
