Beasley knew when he was beaten. He had reckoned only on the Padre. He had forgotten Buck. However, he wouldn’t forget him in the future.
“You can put up your gun, Buck,” he said, with an assumption of geniality that deceived no one, and Buck least of all. “Quit your racket, gals,” he went on. Then he added with the sarcasm he generally fell back on in such emergencies: “Guess this gentleman feels the same as Curly—only he ain’t as—hasty.”
The girls went slowly back to their seats, and Buck, lowering his guns, quietly restored them both to their holsters.
Beasley watched him, and as he saw them disappear his whole manner changed.
“Now, Mister Buck,” he said, with a snarl, “I don’t guess I need either your dollars or your company on my premises. You’ll oblige me—that door ain’t locked.” And he pointed at it deliberately for the man to take his departure.
But Buck only laughed.
“Don’t worry, Beasley,” he said. “I’m here—till you close up for the night.”
And the enraged saloon-keeper had a vision of a smile at his expense which promptly lit the faces of the entire company.
* * *
CHAPTER XVIII
WHEN LIFE HOLDS NO SHADOWS
The mellow evening light glows with a living warmth of color upon hill, and valley, and plain. The myriad tints shine in perfect harmony, for Nature is incapable of discord whether in her reign of beauty or her moments of terror. Discord belongs to the imperfect human eye, the human brain, the human heart. Thus must the most perfect human creation be ever imperfect.
But Nature’s perfections are never lost upon the human mind. They are not intended to be lost. They serve well their purpose of elevating, of uplifting all thought, and affording inspiration for all that which is good and beautiful in hearts thrilling with emotions which need strong support to save them from their own weaknesses.
Something of this influence was at work in the hearts of a man and a girl riding over the hard sand trail in the pleasant evening light. The man’s youthful heart was thrilling with a hope he dared not attempt to define, and could not if he would. His every feeling was inspired by a joy he had no proper understanding of. The glance of his dark eyes bespoke his mood, and his buoyancy seemed to communicate itself to the great horse under him. All he knew was that the glory of the day was all about him, and, beside him, Joan was riding the Padre’s sturdy horse.
The girl at his side was no less uplifted. At the moment shadows troubled her not at all. They were gone, merged into soft, hazy gauzes through which peeped the scenes of life as she desired life to be, and every picture was rose-tinted with the wonderful light of an evening sun.
Her fair young face was radiant; a wonderful happiness shone in the violet depths of her eyes. Her sweet lips were parted, displaying her even, white teeth, and her whole expression was much that of a child who, for the first time, opens its eyes to the real joy of living. Every now and again she drew a deep, long sigh of content and enjoyment.
For a while they rode in silence, their bodies swaying easily to the rhythmic gait of the horses. Their direction lay toward the sun, that direction which ever makes for hope. Ahead of them, and behind them, lay the forest of tall, garbless trunks, their foliage-crowned, disheveled heads nodding in the light breezes from the hilltops, which left the lower atmosphere undisturbed. The scented air, pungent with pleasant odors, swept them by as their horses loped easily along. It was a moment of perfect peace, a moment when life could hold no shadows.
But such feelings are only for the silent moments of perfect companionship. The spoken word, which indexes thought, robs them of half their charm and beauty. The girl felt something of this as the calm voice of her companion broke the wonderful spell.
“That feller’s shaping well,” he said, his thoughts for the moment evidently upon the practical side of her comfort.
The girl nodded. That look of rapturous joy had left her, and she too became practical.
“I think so—when Mrs. Ransford leaves him alone,” she said, with a little laugh. “She declares it is always necessary to harass a ‘hired’ man from daylight to dark. If I were he I’d get out into the pastures, or hay sloughs, or forest, or somewhere, and stay there till she’d gone to bed. Really, Buck, she’s a terrible woman.”
In the growing weeks of companionship Joan had learned to use this man’s name as familiarly as though she had known him all her life. It would have seemed absurd to call him anything but Buck now. Besides, she liked doing so. The name fitted him. “Buck;” it suggested to her—spirit, independence, courage, everything that was manly; and she had long ago decided that he was all these things—and more.
Buck laughed in his quiet fashion. He rarely laughed loudly. Joan thought it sounded more like a deep-throated gurgle.
“She sure is,” he declared heartily.
“Of course,” Joan smiled. “You have crossed swords with her.”
The man shook his head.
“Not me,” he said. “She did the battlin’. Guess I sat tight. You see, words ain’t as easy to a man, as to—some women.”
Joan enjoyed the tact of his remark. She leant forward and smoothed the silky neck of the Padre’s horse, and Buck’s admiring eyes took in the perfect lines of her well-cut habit. He had never seen anything like it before, and failed to understand the excellence of its tailoring, but he knew that everything about this girl was wonderfully beautiful, and he would have liked to have been able to tell her so.
As he watched her he could not help thinking of the moment when he had held her in his arms. It was a thought almost always with him, a thought which never failed to stir his pulses and set them racing.
“But you see I can’t do without her,” the girl went on as she sat up in her saddle again. “She’s a good worker, herself. She’s taught me a good deal already. Oh, yes,” she smiled at his look of incredulity, “I’ve begun my lessons. I am learning all I can, preparing for the bigger lessons of this—this”—she gave a comprehensive glance at the hills—“wonderful world.”
Buck nodded. But he rode on in silence, his face for the moment clouded with deep thought. He was thinking of that night in Beasley’s store. He was thinking of what might have happened there if those women had carried out their purpose. He was wondering what the lessons might be that this girl might yet find herself confronted with. The matter troubled him. And Joan’s surreptitious glance into his face warned her that the cloud had obscured his sun.
The man finally broke the silence.
“Have you got any menfolk?” he asked abruptly.
Joan turned quickly.
“No—why?”
“An uncle—a brother. Maybe a—father?”
There was something almost anxious in Buck’s manner as he enumerated the possible relationships.
But the girl shook her head at each one, and he went on in a tone of disappointment.
“It’s kind of a pity,” he observed. Then, in answer to the girl’s quick look of inquiry, he added evasively: “You see it’s lonesome for a gal—out in these hills.”
Joan knew that that was not the reason of his inquiry, and she smiled quietly at her horse’s ears.
“Why did you want to know if I had—menfolk?” she asked. “I mean the real reason.” She looked up frankly smiling, and compelled his attention.
Buck was not easy to corner, even though he had no experience of women. Again Joan heard his strange gurgle, and her smile broadened.
“You could sure learn your lessons easier with your menfolk around to help you,” he said.
For a second the girl’s face dropped. Then she laughed good-humoredly.
“You’re smart, Buck,” she exclaimed. “But—but you’re most exasperating. Still, I’ll tell you. The only relative I have in the world, that I know of, is—Aunt Mercy.”
“Ah! she’s a woman.”
“Yes, a woman.”
“It’s a pity.” Suddenly Buck pointed ahead at a
great mass of towering rock above the trees. “There’s Devil’s Hill!” he exclaimed.
Joan looked up, all eager delight to behold this wonderful hill Buck had brought her out to see. She expected something unusual, for already she had listened to several accounts of this place and the gold “strike” she was supposed to have brought about. Nor was she disappointed now, at least at first. She stared with wondering eyes at the weird, black giant raising its ugly head in a frowning threat above them, and gave a gasp of surprise.
Then in a moment her surprise died out, and into her eyes crept a strange look of repulsion and even fear. She had no words to offer. She made no move. It was almost as if she sat fascinated like some harmless bird held by the hypnotic stare of a python. So long did she remain silent that Buck at last turned and looked into her face. And something like alarm caught and held him when he beheld her gray look of horror as she faced the gloomy crags mounting up before them.
He too looked out ahead. But his imagination failed him, and his eyes came back to her. The change in her happy, smiling eyes was incredible. Her smile had gone utterly—the bright color of her cheeks. There was no awe in her look, neither curiosity nor admiration. To him it almost seemed that her whole body was thrilled with an utter repugnance and loathing at what she beheld.
“It’s—ugly,” he hazarded at last.
“It’s—it’s dreadful.” The girl’s reply came in a tone there was no mistaking. It was one of concentrated detestation.
“You don’t—like it?” Buck felt helpless.
But Joan’s next words left him without any doubt.
“I—I think I—hate it,” she said harshly.
Buck drew rein on the instant.
“Then we’ll get back to home.”
But Joan had no such intention.
“No—no!” she exclaimed quickly. “We’ll go on. I want to see it. I—I must see it.”
Her manner had suddenly become agitated, and Buck was left wondering the more. She was stirred with strange feelings which embodied a dozen different emotions, and it was the sight of that great black crown, like the head of a Gorgon, which had inspired them. Its fascination was one of cruel attraction. Its familiarity suggested association with some part of her life. It seemed as if she belonged to it, or that it belonged to her—that in some curious way it was actually a part of her life. And all the time her detestation, her fear surged through her heart and left her revolting. But she knew she must go on. Its fascination claimed her and drew her, calling to her with a summons she dared not disobey—had no real desire to disobey.
It was she who took the lead now. She pressed on at a rapid gallop. Her fair young face was set and cold. She remained silent, and her manner forbade the man’s interruption.
But Buck kept pace with her, and a great sympathy held him silent too. He had no real understanding of her mood, only he knew that, for the moment, his presence had no place in her thought.
So they drew toward the shadow of the hill. Each was lost in disturbed reflections. Joan was waiting, expectant of she knew not what, and the man, filled with puzzlement, knew that the solution lay only with the girl beside him.
It had been his thought to point out the things which his practiced mind suggested as of interest, but now, as he beheld the rapt expression of her face, it all became different. Therefore he checked the eager Cæsar and let her lead the way.
Joan had no observation for anything as she rode on right up to the very shadow of the suspended lake. Then, almost mechanically, as though urged by some unseen hand, she drew up sharply. She was no longer looking at the hill, she sat in her saddle limply, and stared vacantly at the rough workings of the miners which had been abandoned for the day.
Still Buck waited in silence.
At last he had his reward. The girl made a movement almost like a shiver. Then she sat up erect. The color came back to her cheeks and she turned to him with eyes in which a ghost of a smile flitted.
“I—I had forgotten,” she said half-apologetically. “This is what has brought prosperity to the camp. This is what has saved them from starvation. We—we should owe it gratitude.”
“I don’t guess the rocks need gratitude,” replied Buck quietly.
“No!”
Joan looked up at the black roof above her and shivered.
“It’s a weird place, where one might well expect weird happenings.”
Buck smiled. He was beginning to obtain some insight into the girl’s mood. So used was he to the gloomy hill that its effect was quite lost on him. Now he knew that some superstitious chord had been struck in the girl’s feelings, and this strange hill had been the medium of its expression.
He suddenly leant forward. Resting on the horn of his saddle he looked into the fair face he so loved. He had seen that haunted look in her face before. He remembered his first meeting with her at the barn. Its termination had troubled him then. It had troubled him since. He remembered the incident when the gold had been presented to her. Again he had witnessed that hunted, terrified look, that strange overpowering of some painful thought—or memory.
Now he felt that she needed support, and strove with all his power to afford it her.
“Guess ther’s nothing weird outside the mind of man,” he said. “Anyway, nothing that needs to scare folk.” He turned and surveyed the hill and the wonderful green country surrounding them. “Get a look around,” he went on, with a comprehensive gesture. “This rock—it’s just rock, natural rock; it’s rock you’ll find most anywhere. It’s got dumped down right here wher’ most things are green, an’ dandy, an’ beautiful to the eye; so it looks queer, an’ sets your thoughts gropin’ among the cobwebs of mystery. Ther’s sure no life to it but the life of rock. This great overhang has just been cut by washouts of centuries in spring, when the creek’s in flood, an’ it just happens ther’s a hot sulphur lake on top, fed by a spring. I’ve known it these years an’ years. Guess it’s sure always been the same. It ain’t got enough to it to scare a jack-rabbit.”
Joan shook her head. But the man was glad to see the return of her natural expression, and that her smiling eyes were filled with a growing interest He knew that her strange mood was passing.
He went on at once in his most deliberate fashion.
“You needn’t to shake your head,” he said, with a smile of confidence. “It’s jest the same with everything. It sure is. We make life what it is for ourselves. It’s the same for everybody, an’ each feller gets busy makin’ it different. The feller that gets chasin’ trouble don’t need to run. He only needs to set around and shout. Guess it’ll come along if he’s yearnin’ for it. But it don’t come on its own. That’s sure as sure. Keep brain an’ body busy doin’ the things that lie handy, an’ when you got to make good among the rocks of life, why, I sure guess you won’t find a rock half big enough to stop you.”
Watching the deep glowing eyes of the man Joan felt that his confidence was not merely the confidence of brave words. A single glance into his purposeful face left the definite impression that his was a strength that is given to few. It was the strength of a simple, honest mind as yet unfouled by the grosser evils of an effete civilization. His was the force and courage of the wild—the impulse which governs all creatures who live in the midst of Nature’s battle-grounds.
“That’s—that’s because you’re so strong you feel that way,” she said, making no attempt to disguise the admiration she felt. “The burden of life does not always fall so easily. There are things, too, in spite of what you say, that we cannot control—evils, I mean evils which afflict us.”
Buck glanced away down the creek. Then his eyes came back to her, and a new resolve lay behind them.
“I’m no stronger than others,” he said. “Guess I haven’t ha’f the strength of some. I’d say——” he paused. Then he went on, his eyes gazing fearlessly into hers: “I’d say I haven’t ha’f the strength of a gal who gives up the city—a young gal jest beginning a woman’s life with ’m
ost everything in her favor—an’ comes right out here to farm without a livin’ soul to pass her a hand. I ain’t got ha’f the courage of a gal who does that jest because she’s chased by thoughts that worry her an’ make her days no better than to set her—hatin’ them. Strength? Say, when you ken laff an’ all the time feel that life ain’t ha’f so pleasant as death, why, I’d sure say ther’ ain’t no greater strength this side of the check-taker’s box.”
Joan could hardly believe her ears as she listened. Astonishment, resentment, helplessness, incredulity, all struggled for place. How had this man discovered her secret? How? How? What did he know besides? For a moment her feelings robbed her of speech and betrayed themselves in her expressive face.
But the man’s smile, so easy, so disarming, held her. He saw and understood, and he hastened to reassure her.
“Guess I ain’t pryin’,” he said bluntly. “These things just come along to my tongue, feeling you were troubled at this—hill. You’ve told me a heap since you come to the farm. You told me things which I don’t guess you wer’ yearnin’ to tell any one. But you didn’t tell ’em with your tongue. An’ I don’t guess you need to. Set your mind easy. You’re scared to death of some trouble which ain’t of your seekin’—wal, I don’t believe in such trouble.”
Then he laughed in so unconcerned, so buoyant and whole-hearted a fashion that Joan’s confidence and hope leapt again.
“Say,” he added, as he saw the brightening of her face, “when you fancy that trouble’s gettin’ around, when you fancy it’s good an’ big, an’ a whole heap to carry, why, you can pass it right on to me. I’m yearnin’ to get busy with jest sech a proposition.”
Buck’s manner was irresistible. Joan felt herself swept along by it. She longed there and then to tell him the whole of her miserable little story. Yes, he made it seem so small to her now. He made it, at the moment, seem like nothing. It was almost as though he had literally lifted her burden and was bearing the lion’s share of it himself. Her heart thrilled with gratitude, with joy in this man’s wonderful comradeship. She longed to open her heart to him—to implore him to shield her from all those terrible anxieties which beset her. She longed to feel the clasp of his strong hand in hers and know that it was there to support her always. She felt all these things without one shadow of fear—somehow his very presence dispelled her shadows.
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