The woman turned back to her cooking. Her manner was gravely disapproving, and she had managed to convey a sting which somehow hurt Joan far more than she was willing to admit. Her refusal to undertake the added work was merely churlish and disconcerting, but those other remarks raised a decided anger not untouched by a feeling of shame and hurt. But Joan did not give way to any of these feelings in her reply. She did the only dignified thing possible.
“You need not wait until your dissatisfaction with me overwhelms you, Mrs. Ransford,” she said promptly. “I engaged you by the month, and I shall be glad if you will leave me to-day month.” Then she added with a shadow of reproach: “Really, I thought you were made of better stuff.”
But her attitude had a far different result to what she had expected. She turned to go, preferring to avoid a further torrent of abuse from the harsh old woman, when the spoon flourished in the air as the widow of George D. swung round from her pots with an amazing alacrity.
“You ain’t chasin’ me out, Miss Joan—ma’m?” she cried aghast, her round eyes rolling in sudden distress. “Why, miss—ma’m, I never meant no harm—that I didn’t. Y’ see I was jest sore hearin’ them sayin’ things ’bout you in the camp, an’ you a-singin’ made me feel you didn’t care nuthin’. An’ these scallawags a-comin’ around a-sassin’ you, an’ a-kissin’ you, sort o’ set my blood boilin’. No, miss—ma’m, you ain’t a-goin’ to chase me out! You wouldn’t now, would you?” she appealed. “Jest say you won’t, an’ I’ll have the house turned sheer upside down ’fore you know wher’ you are. There, jest think of it. You may need some un to ke’p that scallawag Buck in his place. How you goin’ to set about him without me around? I ain’t quittin’ this day month, am I, miss—ma’m?”
The old woman’s abject appeal was too much for Joan’s soft heart, and her smiling eyes swiftly told the waiting penitent that the sentence was rescinded. Instantly the shadow was lifted from the troubled face.
“It was your own fault, Mrs. Ransford,” Joan said, struggling to conceal her amusement. “However, if you want to stay——Well, I must drive into the camp before dinner, and we’ll see about the little room when I return.”
“That we will, mum—miss. That we will,” cried the farm-wife in cordial relief as Joan hurried out of the room.
* * *
Joan drew up at Beasley’s store just as that individual was preparing to adjourn his labors for dinner. The man saw her coming from the door of his newly-completed barn, and softly whistled to himself at the sight of the slim, girlish figure sitting in the wagon behind the heavy team of horses he had so long known as the Padre’s.
This was only the third time he had seen the girl abroad in the camp, and he wondered at the object of her visit now.
Whatever malice he bore her, and his malice was of a nature only to be understood by his warped mind, his admiration was none the less for it. Not a detail of her appearance escaped his quick, lustful eyes. Her dainty white shirt-waist was covered by the lightest of dust coats, and her pretty face was shadowed by a wide straw hat which protected it from the sun’s desperate rays. Her deeply-fringed eyes shone out from the shade, and set the blood pulsing through the man’s veins. He saw the perfect oval of her fair face, with its ripe, full lips and delicate, small nose, so perfect in shape, so regular in its setting under her broad open brow. Her wonderful hair, that ruddy-tinted mass of burnished gold which was her most striking feature, made him suck in a whistling breath of sensual appreciation. Without a moment’s hesitation, hat in hand he went to meet her.
As he came up his foxy eyes were alight with what he intended for a grin of amiability. Whatever his peculiarly vindictive nature he was more than ready to admit to himself the girl’s charms.
“Say, Miss Golden,” he cried, purposely giving her the name the popular voice had christened her, “it’s real pleasant of you to get around. Guess the camp’s a mighty dull show without its lady citizens. Maybe you’ll step right up into my storeroom. I got a big line of new goods in from Leeson. Y’ see the saloon ain’t for such as you,” he laughed. “Guess it does for the boys all right. I’m building a slap-up store next—just dry goods an’ notions. Things are booming right now. They’re booming so hard there’s no keepin’ pace. I’ll tie your hosses to this post.”
His manner was perfect in its amiability, but Joan detested it because of the man. He could never disguise his personality, and Joan was beginning to understand such personalities as his.
“Thanks,” she said coldly, as, taking advantage of his being occupied with the horses, she jumped quickly from the vehicle. “I came to mail a letter,” she said, as she moved on up to the big barn which was Beasley’s temporary storehouse, “and to give you a rather large order for furnishing and things.”
She produced a paper with her list of requirements, and handed it to him.
“You see, I’m refurnishing the farm,” she went on, while the man glanced an appreciative eye over the extensive order. “Can you do those things?” she asked as he looked up from his perusal.
“Why, yes. There’s nothing difficult there. What we can’t do here we can send on to Leeson Butte for. I’ve got some elegant samples of curtains just come along. Maybe you’ll step inside?”
In spite of her dislike of the man Joan had no hesitation in passing into the storeroom. She had no desire in the world to miss the joy of inspecting a fresh consignment of dry goods. She felt almost as excited, and quite as much interested, as though she were visiting one of the great stores in St. Ellis.
In a few moments she was lost in a close inspection of the display. Nor had she any thought, or wonder, that here in the wilderness, on the banks of Yellow Creek, such things should already have found their way. For a long time the keen man of business expended his arts of persuasion upon her, and, by the time the girl had exhausted his stock, he had netted a sound order. His satisfaction was very evident, and now he was prepared to regard her rather as a woman than a customer.
“Makes you think some,” he observed, with a wave of his hand in the direction of the piled-up fabrics and unopened cases. Then he laughed in a way that jarred upon the girl. “Ther’s money to burn here. Money! Whew!” Then his eyes became serious. “If it only lasts!”
“Why shouldn’t it?” asked Joan unsuspiciously. She had finished, and was anxious to get away. But the man seemed to want to talk, and it seemed churlish to deny him.
Beasley shook his head, while his eyes devoured her appealing beauty.
“It won’t,” he said decidedly. “It’s too big—too rich. Besides——”
“Besides what?”
The man’s eyes had lost their grin. They were the eyes of the real man.
“It’s—devil’s luck. I’ve said it all along. Only ther’s sech plaguey knowalls around they won’t believe it. Buck now—I got nothing against Buck. He’s a good citizen. But he’s got a streak o’ yeller in him, an’ don’t hold with no devil’s luck. Maybe you remember.” He grinned unpleasantly into the girl’s eyes.
She remembered well enough. She was not likely to forget the manner in which Buck had come to her help. She flushed slightly.
“What do you mean by ‘a streak of yellow’?” she demanded coldly.
“It don’t need a heap of explaining. He’s soft on mission talk.”
Joan’s flush deepened. This man had a mean way of putting things.
“If you mean that he doesn’t believe in—in superstitions, and that sort of thing, if you mean he’s just a straightforward, honest-thinking man—well, I agree with you.”
Beasley was enjoying the spectacle of the warmth which prompted her defense. She was devilish pretty, he admitted to himself.
“Maybe you feel that way,” he said, in a tone that jarred. “Say,” he went on shrewdly, “I’m no sucker, I’m not one of these slobs chasin’ gold they’re eager to hand on to the first guy holdin’ out his hand. I’m out to make a pile. I had a claim in the ballot. Maybe it’s a good clai
m. I ain’t troubled to see. Why? I’ll tell you. Maybe I’d have taken a few thousand dollars out of it. Maybe a heap. Maybe only a little. Not good—with all these slobs around.” He shook his head. “I figured I’d git the lot if I traded. I’d get the show of all of the claims. See? The ‘strike’ ain’t goin’ to last. It’s a pocket in the hill, an’ it’ll peter out just as dead sure as—well as can be. An’ when it’s petered out there’s going to be jest one feller around here who’s made a profit—an’ it ain’t one of those who used the sluice-boxes. No, you can believe what you like. This ‘strike’ was jest a devil’s laugh at folks who know no better. An’ master Buck has handed you something of devil’s luck when he made you take that gold.”
There was something very keen about this man, and in another Joan might have admired it; but Beasley’s mind was tainted with such a vicious meanness that admiration was impossible.
“I don’t believe it,” said Joan staunchly. “Neither does Buck. He would never willingly hand me the trouble you suggest.”
Her words were the result of an impetuous defense of the absent man. To hear this man attack Buck was infuriating. But the moment she had uttered them, the moment she had seen their effect, that meaning laugh which they brought to the storekeeper’s lips, she wished they had never been spoken.
“Don’t guess Buck needs to scrap fer himself with you around, Miss Golden,” he laughed. “Gee! He’s in luck. I wonder!”
Joan choked back her swift-rising indignation. The man wasn’t worth it, she told herself, and hurriedly prepared to depart. But Beasley had no intention of letting her go like that.
“I wonder whether he is in luck, though,” he went on quickly, in a tone he knew the girl would not be able to resist. His estimate was right. She made no further move to go.
“How?” she asked.
“Oh, nuthin’ of consequence,” he said aggravatingly. “I was just thinking of the way folks are talking.” Then he laughed right out; and if Joan had only understood the man she would have known that his merriment was but the precursor of something still more unpleasant.
But such natures as his were quite foreign to her. She merely instinctively disliked him.
“What do you mean?” she asked unsuspiciously.
Beasley was serious again, and wore an air of deprecation when he answered her.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “’tain’t nuthin’. Y’ see folks are always most ready to gas around. It’s ’bout them two boys. They’re hot about ’em. Y’ see Pete was a mighty popular feller, an’ Ike had good friends. Y’ see they were always good spenders—an’ most folks like good spenders. But ther’—’tain’t nuthin’ that needs tellin’ you. Guess it’ll only make a dandy gal like you feel mean.”
The man’s purpose must have been evident to anybody less simple than Joan. As it was she jumped at the bait so skilfully held out.
“But you must tell me,” she said, remembering Mrs. Ransford’s remarks. “I insist on knowing if it is anything concerning me.”
Beasley’s air was perfect. His eyes were as frankly regretful as he could make them.
“Wal,” he said, “it certainly does concern you—but I’d rather not say it.”
“Go on.”
Joan’s face was coldly haughty.
“I wouldn’t take it too mean,” said Beasley warningly. “I sure wouldn’t. You see folks say a heap o’ things that is trash. They guess it’s your doin’ ’bout them boys. They reckon you played ’em one ag’in t’other for their wads, an’ both o’ them ag’in—Buck. Y’ see—mind I’m jest tellin’ you cos you asked—they guess you ast ’em both to supper that evenin’. Pete said he was ast, an’ Ike let on the same. You ast ’em both for the fun of the racket. An’ you had Buck around to watch the fun. Yes, they’re pretty hot. An’ you can’t blame ’em, believin’ as they do. One of ’em—I forget who it rightly was—he called you the camp Jonah. Said just as long as you wer’ around ther’d be trouble. He was all for askin’ you to clear right out. He said more than that, but I don’t guess you need to know it all.”
“But I do need to know it all. I need to know all they said, and—who said it.”
Joan’s eyes were blazing. Beasley made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction, and went on at once—
“Course I can’t give you names. But the facts I don’t guess I’m likely to forget—they made me so riled. They said that farm of yours was just a blind. It—it was—well, you’d come along here for all you could get—an’ that——”
Joan cut him short.
“That’s enough,” she cried. “You needn’t tell me any more. I—I understand. Oh, the brutal, heartless ruffians! Tell me. Who was it said these things? I demand to know. I insist on the names. Oh!”
The girl’s exasperation was even greater than Beasley had hoped for. He read, too, the shame and hurt underlying it, and his satisfaction was intense. He felt that he was paying her off for some of the obvious dislike she had always shown him, and it pleased him as it always pleased him when his mischief went home. But now, having achieved his end, he promptly set about wriggling clear of consequences, which was ever his method.
“I’d like to give you the names,” he said frankly. “But I can’t. You see, when fellers are drunk they say things they don’t mean, an’ it wouldn’t be fair to give them away. I jest told you so you’d be on your guard—just to tell you the folks are riled. But it ain’t as bad as it seems. I shut ’em up quick, feeling that no decent citizen could stand an’ hear a pretty gal slandered like that. An’ I’ll tell you this, Miss Golden, you owe me something for the way I made ’em quit. Still,” he added, with a leer, “I don’t need payment. You see, I was just playin’ the game.”
Joan was still furious. And somehow his wriggling did not ring true even in her simple ears.
“Then you won’t tell me who it was?” she cried.
Beasley shook his head.
“Nuthin’ doin’,” he said facetiously.
“Then you—you are a despicable coward,” she cried. “You—oh!” And she almost fled out of the hated creature’s storeroom.
Beasley looked after her. The satisfaction had gone from his eyes, leaving them wholly vindictive.
“Coward, am I, ma’m!” he muttered. Then he looked at the order for furniture which was still in his hand.
The sight of it made him laugh.
* * *
CHAPTER XXV
BUCK LAUGHS AT FATE
The telling of the Padre’s story cost Buck a wakeful night. It was not that he had any doubts either of the truth of the story, or of his friend. He needed no evidence to convince him of either. Or rather, such was his nature that no evidence could have broken his faith and friendship. Strength and loyalty were the key-note of his whole life. To him the Padre was little less than a god, in whom nothing could shake his belief. He honored him above all men in the world, and, such as it was, his own life, his strength, his every nerve, were at his service. Moreover, it is probable that his loyalty would have been no whit the less had the man pleaded guilty to the crime he was accused of.
No, it was not the story he had listened to which kept him wakeful. It was not the rights or wrongs, or the significance of it, that inspired his unrest. It was something of a far more personal note.
It was the full awakening of a mind and heart to a true understanding of themselves. And the manner of his awakening had been little short of staggering. He loved, and his love had risen up before his eyes in a manner the full meaning of which he had only just realized. It was his friend who had brought about his awakening, his friend who had put into brief words that which had been to him nothing but a delicious dream.
The man’s words rang through his brain the night long.
“Why? Why?” they said. “Because you love this little Joan, daughter of my greatest friend. Because I owe it to you—to her, to face my accusers and prove my innocence.”
That brief passionate declaration had changed the whole o
utlook of his life. The old days, the old thoughts, the old unexpressed feelings and hazy ambitions had gone—swept away in one wave of absorbing passion. There was neither future nor past to him now. He lived in the thought of this woman’s delightful presence, and beyond that he could see nothing.
Vaguely he knew that much must lay before him. The past, well, that was nothing. He understood that the drift of life’s stream could no longer carry him along without his own effort at guidance. He knew that somewhere beyond this dream a great battle of Life lay waiting for his participation. He felt that henceforth he was one of those struggling units he had always regarded as outside his life. And all because of this wonderful sunlight of love which shone deep into the remotest cells of brain and heart. He felt strong for whatever lay before him. This perfect sunshine, so harmonious with every feeling, thrilled him with a virile longing to go out and proclaim his defiance against the waiting hordes in Life’s eternal battle. No road could be so rough as to leave him shrinking, no fight so fierce that he was not confident of victory, no trouble so great that it could not be borne with perfect cheerfulness. As he had awakened to love so had he awakened to life, yearning and eager.
As the long night wore on his thought became clearer, more definite. So that before his eyes closed at last in a broken slumber he came to many decisions for the immediate future. The greatest, the most momentous of these was that he must see Joan again without delay. He tried to view this in perfect coolness, but though the decision remained with him the fever of doubt and despair seized him, and he became the victim of every fear known to the human lover’s heart. To him who had never known the meaning of fear his dread became tenfold appalling. He must see her—and perhaps for the last time in his life. This interview might well terminate once and for all every thought of earthly happiness, and fling him back upon the meagre solace of a wilderness, which now, without Joan, would be desolation indeed.
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