The Golden Woman

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  “What’s worryin’?” he inquired in his direct fashion.

  The Padre stirred uneasily. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and pressed the glowing tobacco down with the head of a rusty nail.

  “Oh, nothing worrying,” he said, turning back to his survey of the valley beyond the decaying stockade. “The sun’ll be over the hilltops in half an hour,” he went on.

  But the manner of his answer told Buck all he wanted to know. He too glanced out beyond the valley.

  “Yes,” he ejaculated, and went on sweeping. A moment later he paused again. “Guess I can’t be out at the traps till noon. Mebbe you ken do without me—till then?”

  “Sure.” The Padre nodded at the valley. Then he added: “I’ve been thinking.”

  “’Bout that gold strike? ’Bout me? You bin thinkin’ I ought to quit the traps, an’—make good wi’ them. I know.”

  The elder man turned back sharply and looked into the dark eyes with a shrewd smile.

  “You generally get what I’m thinking,” he said.

  “Guess you’re not much of a riddle—to me,” Buck laughed, drawing the moist dust into a heap preparatory to picking it up.

  The Padre laughed too.

  “Maybe you know how I’m feeling about things, then? Y’ see there’s nothing for you now but half the farm money. That’s yours anyway. It isn’t a pile. Seems to me you ought to be—out there making a big position for yourself.” He nodded in the direction of Devil’s Hill.

  “Out of gold?”

  “Why not? It’s an opportunity.”

  “What for?” Buck inquired, without a semblance of enthusiasm.

  “Why, for going ahead—with other folks.”

  Buck nodded.

  “I know. Goin’ to a city with a big pile. A big house. Elegant clothes. Hired servants. Congress. Goin’ around with a splash of big type in the noospapers.”

  “That’s not quite all, Buck.” The man at the door shook his head. “A man when he rises doesn’t need to go in for—well, for vulgar display. There are a heap of other things besides. What about the intellectual side of civilization? What about the advancement of good causes? What about—well, all those things we reckon worth while out here? Then, too, you’ll be marrying some day.”

  Buck picked up the dust and carefully emptied it into the blazing stove. He watched it burn for a moment, and then replaced the round iron top.

  “Marryin’ needs—all those things?” he inquired at last.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” returned the other quickly. He knew something was lying behind Buck’s quiet manner, and it made him a little uncomfortable. “Most men find a means of marrying when they want to—if they’re men. Look here,” he went on, with a sudden outburst of simple candor, “I want to be fair to you, and I want you to be fair to yourself. There’s an opportunity over there”—he pointed with his pipe in the direction of Devil’s Hill—“an opportunity to make a pile, which will help you to take a position in the world. I don’t want you to stay with me from any mistaken sense of gratitude or duty. It is my lot, and my desire, to remain in these hills. But you—you’ve got your life before you. You can rise to the top if you want to. I know you. I know your capacity. Take your share of the farm money, and—get busy.”

  “An’ if I don’t want to—get busy?” Buck’s dark eyes were alight with a curious, intense warmth.

  The Padre shrugged and pushed his pipe into the corner of his mouth.

  “There’s nothing more to be said,” he replied.

  “But ther’ is, Padre. There sure is,” cried Buck, stepping over to him and laying one hand on the great shoulder nearest him. “I get all you say. I’ve got it long ago. You bin worryin’ to say all this since ever you got back from sellin’ the farm. An’ it’s like you. But you an’ me don’t jest figger alike. You got twenty more years of the world than me, so your eyes look around you different. That’s natural. You’re guessin’ that hill is an opportunity for me. Wal, I’m guessin’ it ain’t. Mebbe it is for others, but not for me. I got my opportunity twenty years ago, an’ you give me that opportunity. I was starvin’ to death then, an’ you helped me out. You’re my opportunity, an’ it makes me glad to think of it. Wher’ you go I go, an’ when we both done, why, I guess it won’t be hard to see that what I done an’ what you done was meant for us both to do. We’re huntin’ pelts for a livin’ now, an’ when the time comes for us to quit it, why, we’ll both quit it together, an’ so it’ll go on. It don’t matter wher’ it takes us. Say,” he went on, turning away abruptly. “Guess I’ll jest haul the drinkin’ water before I get.”

  The Padre turned his quiet eyes on the slim back.

  “And what about when you think of marrying?” he asked shrewdly.

  Buck paused to push the boiler off the stove. He shook his head and pointed at the sky.

  “Guess the sun’s gettin’ up,” he said.

  The Padre laughed and prepared to depart.

  “Where you off to this morning?” he inquired presently.

  “That gal ain’t got a hired man, yet,” Buck explained simply, as he picked up his saddle. Then he added ingenuously, “Y’ see I don’t guess she ken do the chores, an’ the old woman ain’t got time to—for talkin’.”

  The Padre nodded while he bent over the breech of his Winchester. He had no wish for Buck to see the smile his words had conjured.

  Buck swung his saddle on to his shoulder and passed out of the hut in the direction of the building he had converted into a barn. And when he had gone the Padre looked after him.

  “He says she’s handsome, with red-gold hair and blue eyes,” he murmured. Then a far-away look stole into his steady eyes, and their stare fixed itself upon the doorway of the barn through which Buck had just vanished. “Curious,” he muttered. “They’ve nicknamed her ‘Golden,’ which happened to be a nickname—her father gave her.”

  He stood for some moments lost in thought. Then, suddenly pulling himself together, he shouldered his rifle and disappeared into the woods.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIV

  A WHIRLWIND VISIT

  Joan was idling dispiritedly over her breakfast. A long, wakeful night had at last ended in the usual aching head and eyes ringed with shadows. She felt dreary, and looked forward drearily to inspecting her farm—which, in her normal state, would have inspired nothing but perfect delight—with something like apprehension.

  Her beginning in the new life had been swamped in a series of disastrous events which left her convinced of the impossibility of escape from the painful shadow of the past. All night her brain had been whirling in a perfect chaos of thought as she reviewed her advent to the farm. There had been nothing, from her point of view, but disaster upon disaster. First her arrival. Then—why, then the “luck” of the gold find. In her eyes, what was that but the threat of disaster to come? Had not her aunt told her that this extraordinary luck that she must ever bring was part of the curse shadowing her life? Then the coincidence of her nickname. It was truly hideous. The very incongruity of it made it seem the most terrible disaster of all. Surely, more than anything else, it pointed the hand of Fate. It was her father’s nickname for her, and he—he had been the worst sufferer at her hands.

  The whole thing seemed so hopeless, so useless. What was the use of her struggle against this hateful fate? A spirit of rebellion urged her, and she felt half-inclined to abandon herself to the life that was hers; to harden herself, and, taking the cup life offered her, drain it to the dregs. Why should she waste her life battling with a force which seemed all-powerful? Why should she submit to the terror of it? What were the affairs of these others to her? She was not responsible. Nothing in the whole sane world of ethics could hold her responsible.

  The spirit of rebellion, for the moment, obtained the upper hand. She had youth; Fortune had bestowed a face and figure upon her that she need not be ashamed of, and a healthy capacity for enjoyment. Then why should she abandon all these gifts because
of a fate for which she was in no way responsible?

  She pushed back her chair from the table, and crossed to the open front door.

  The sun was not yet up, and the morning air was dewy and fresh with perfumes such as she had never experienced in St. Ellis. It was—yes, it was good to be alive on such a day in spite of everything.

  She glanced out over the little farm—her farm. Yes, it was all hers, bought and paid for, and she still had money for all her needs and to do those things she wanted to do. She turned away and looked back into the little parlor with its simple furnishings, its mannish odds and ends upon the wall. She heard the sounds of the old housekeeper busy in her heavy, blundering way with the domestic work of her home. She had so many plans for the future, and every one in its inception had given her the greatest delight. Now—now this hideous skeleton had stepped from its cupboard and robbed her of every joy. No, she would not stand it. She would steel her heart to these stupid, girlish superstitions. She would—

  Her gloomy reflections were abruptly cut short. There was a rush and clatter. In a perfect whirlwind of haste a horseman dashed up, dragged his horse back on to its haunches as he pulled up, and flung out of the saddle.

  It was the boy, Montana Ike. He grabbed his disreputable hat from his ginger head, and stared agape at the vision of loveliness he had come in search of.

  “Good—good-morning,” Joan said, hardly knowing how to greet this strange apparition.

  The boy nodded, and moistened his lips as though consumed by a sudden thirst.

  For a moment they stared stupidly at each other. Then Joan, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, endeavored to relieve it.

  “Daylight?” she exclaimed interrogatively, “and you not yet out at the—where the gold is?”

  Ike shook his head and grinned the harder. Then his tongue loosened, and his words came with a sudden rush that left the girl wondering.

  “Y’ see the folks is eatin’ breakfast,” he said. “Y’ see I jest cut it right out, an’ come along. I heard Pete—you know Blue Grass Pete—he’s a low-down Kentuckian—he said he tho’t some un orter git around hyar case you was queer after last night. Sed he guessed he would. Guess I’ll git back ’fore they’re busy. It’ll take ’em all hustlin’ to git ahead o’ me.”

  “That’s very kind,” Joan replied mechanically. But the encouragement was scarcely needed. The boy rushed on, like a river in flood time.

  “Oh, it ain’t zac’ly kind!” he said. “Y’ see they’re mostly a low-down lot, an’ Pete’s the low-downest. He’s bad, is Pete, an’ ain’t no bizness around a leddy. Then Beasley Melford. He’s jest a durned skunk anyways. Don’t guess Curly Saunders ain’t much account neither. He makes you sick to death around a whisky bottle. Abe Allinson, he’s sort o’ mean, too. Y’ see Abe’s Slaney Dick’s pardner, an’ they bin workin’ gold so long they ain’t got a tho’t in their gray heads ’cept gold an’ rot-gut rye. Still, they’re better’n the Kid. The Kid’s soft, so we call him Soapy. Guess you orter know ’em all right away. Y’ see it’s easy a gal misbelievin’ the rights o’ folks.”

  Joan smiled. Something of the man’s object was becoming plain.

  She studied his face while he was proceeding to metaphorically nail up each of these men’s coffins, and the curious animal alertness of it held her interest. His eyes were wide and restless, and a hardness marked the corners of his rather loose mouth. She wondered if that hardness were natural, or whether it had been acquired in the precarious life that these people lived.

  “It’s just as well to know—everybody,” she said gently.

  “Oh, it sure is, in a country like this,” the man went on confidently. “That’s why I come along. Fellers chasin’ gold is a hell of a bad outfit. Y’ see, I ain’t bin long chasin’ gold, an’ I don’t figger to keep at it long neither. Y’ see, I got a good claim. Guess it’s sure the best. We drew lots for ’em last night. It was the Padre fixed that up. He’s a great feller, the Padre. An’ I got the best one—wher’ the Padre found that nugget you got. Oh, I’m lucky—dead lucky! Guess I’ll git a pile out o’ my claim, sure. A great big pile. Then I’m goin’ to live swell in a big city an’ have a great big outfit of folks workin’ fer me. An’ I’ll git hooked up with a swell gal. It’ll be a bully proposition. Guess the gal’ll be lucky, cos I’ll have such a big pile.”

  The youngster’s enthusiasm and conceit were astounding. Nor could Joan help the coldness they inspired in her voice.

  “She will be lucky—marrying you,” she agreed. “But—aren’t you afraid you’ll miss something if the others get out to the hill before you? I mean, they being such a bad lot.”

  The man became serious for a second before he answered. Then, in a moment, his face brightened into a grin of confidence.

  “Course you can’t trust ’em,” he said, quite missing Joan’s desire to be rid of him. “But I don’t guess any of ’em’s likely to try monkey tricks. Guess if any feller robbed me I’d shoot him down in his tracks. They know that, sure. Oh, no, they won’t play no monkey tricks. An’ anyway, I ain’t givin’ ’em a chance.”

  He moved toward his horse and replaced the reins over its neck in spite of his brave words. Joan understood. She saw the meanness underlying his pretended solicitation for her well-being. All her sex instincts were aroused, and she quite understood the purpose of the somewhat brutal youth.

  “You’re quite right to give them no chances,” she said coldly. “And now, I s’pose, you’re going right out to your claim?”

  “I am that,” exclaimed the other, with a gleam of cupidity in his shifty eyes. “I’m goin’ right away to dig lumps of gold fer to buy di’monds fer that gal.”

  He laughed uproariously at his pleasantry as he leapt into the saddle. But in a moment his mirth had passed, and his whole expression suddenly hardened as he bent down from the saddle.

  “But ef Pete comes around you git busy an’ boot him right out. Pete’s bad—a real bad un. He’s wuss’n Beasley. Wal, I won’t say he’s wuss. But he’s as bad. Git me?”

  Joan nodded. She had no alternative. The fellow sickened her. She had been ready to meet him as one of these irresponsible people, ignorant, perhaps dissipated, but at least well-meaning. But here she found the lower, meaner traits of manhood she thought were only to be found amongst the dregs of a city. It was not a pleasant experience, and she was glad to be rid of him.

  “I think I understand. Good-bye.”

  “You’re a bright gal, you sure are,” the youth vouchsafed cordially. “I guessed you’d understand. I like gals who understand quick. That’s the sort o’ gal I’m goin’ to hitch up with.” He grinned, and crushed his hat well down on his head. “Wal, so long. See you ag’in. Course I can’t git around till after I finish on my claim. Guess you won’t feel lonesome tho’, you got to git your farm fixed right. Wal, so long.”

  Joan nodded as the man rode off, thankful for the termination of his vicious, whirlwind visit. Utterly disgusted, she turned back to the house to find Mrs. Ransford standing in the doorway.

  “What’s he want?” the old woman demanded in her most uncompromising manner.

  The girl laughed mirthlessly.

  “I think he wants a little honesty and kindliness knocked into his very warped nature,” she declared, with a sigh.

  “Warped? Warped?” The old woman caught at the word, and it seemed to set her groping in search of adequate epithets in which to express her feelings. “I don’t know what that means. But he’s it anyways—they all are.”

  And she vanished again into the culinary kingdom over which she presided.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XV

  THE CLAIMS OF DUTY

  Half an hour later Joan left the house for the barn.

  In that brief space she had lived through one of those swiftly-passing epochs in human life when mind, heart and inclination are brought into something approaching actual conflict. But, stern as the fight with weakness had been, she had emerged c
hastened and victorious. Realization had come to her—realization of whither her troubles had been leading her. She knew she must not abandon herself to the selfishness which her brief rebellion had prompted. She was young, inexperienced, and of a highly-sensitive temperament, but she was not weak. And it was this fact which urged her now. Metaphorically speaking, she had determined to tackle life with shirt sleeves rolled up.

  She knew that duty was not only duty, but something which was to yield her a measure of happiness. She knew, too, that duty was not only to be regarded from a point of view of its benefit to others. There was a duty to oneself—which must not be claimed for the sin of selfishness—just as surely as to others; that in its thoroughness of performance lay the secret of all that was worth having in life, and that the disobedience of the laws of such duty, the neglect of them, was to outrage the canons of all life’s ethics, and to bring down upon the head of the offender the inevitable punishment.

  She must live her life calmly, honestly, whatever the fate hanging over her. That was the first and most important decision she arrived at. She must not weakly yield to panic inspired by superstitious dread. To do so was, she felt, to undermine her whole moral being. She must ignore this shadow, she must live a life that defied its power. And when the cloud grew too black, if that method were not sufficient to dispel it, she must appeal for alleviation and support from that Power which would never deny its weak and helpless creatures. She knew that human endurance of suffering was intended to be limited, and that when that limit was honestly reached support was still waiting for the sufferer.

  Thus she left the house in a chastened spirit, and once more full of youthful courage. The work, the new life she had chosen for herself, must fill every moment of her waking hours. And somehow she felt that with her stern resolve had come a foretaste of that happiness she demanded of life. Her spirits rose as she neared the barn, and a wild excitement filled her as she contemplated a minute inspection of her belongings and her intention to personally minister to their wants.