“Then, you have seen him? You know him?”
Her aunt laughed. It was a painful, hideous laugh, suggesting every hateful feeling rather than mirth. Joan was shocked, and vaguely wondered when she had ever before heard her aunt laugh.
“Know him? Yes, I know him.” The laugh was gone and a terrible look had suddenly replaced the granite hardness of her eyes. “I have known him all my life. I saw him only to-day, in the hills. He knew me. Oh, yes, he knew me, and I knew him. We have reason to know each other. But his name is not Moreton Kenyon. It is—Moreton Bucklaw.”
Joan’s wonder gave place to alarm as the other’s venomous manner increased. The look in her eyes she recognized as the look she had seen in the woman’s eyes when she had first listened to the story of her childhood.
“Moreton Bucklaw?”
“Yes, Moreton Bucklaw,” her aunt cried, with sudden vehemence, which seemed to grow with every word she spoke. “Moreton Bucklaw. Do you understand? No, of course you don’t. So this is your paragon of goodness and wisdom. This is the man who has told you that your fate only exists in distorted fancy. This is the man who is the foster-father of your wonderful Buck, who defies the curse of disaster which dogs your feet. Child, child, you have proved my words out of your own lips. The disaster you deny is hard upon your heels, hard upon the heels of this man you love. Your own hand, the hand even of your lover, is in it. Was it fate that brought you here? Was it fate that you should love this man? Was it fate that made my teamster lose his way and so bring me face to face with this man, almost at the door of his own home? Was it fate that brought me here? Yes, yes, yes! I tell you it was fate that did all these things—your fate. The curse from which you can never escape. Moreton Bucklaw!” She mouthed the words with insane glee. “It is almost laughable,” she cried. “You have promised to marry the foster-son of the man who is shortly to pay the penalty for the murder of—your father.”
* * *
CHAPTER XXVIII
A BLACK NIGHT
The Padre sat staring into space before the stove. Buck was in his favorite position at the open door, gazing out into the darkness of the night. As he smoked his evening pipe he was thinking, as usual, of the woman who was never quite out of his thoughts. He was intensely happy in the quiet fashion that was so much a part of him. It seemed to him unbelievable that he could have lived and been content before he met Joan. Now there could be no life without her, no world even. She pervaded his every sense, his whole being, with her beautiful presence.
He breathed deeply. Yes, it was all very, very wonderful. Then, by degrees, his thoughts ran on to the expected arrival of Joan’s relative—that aunt whom he had heard so much about from the Padre. And in a moment an uneasy feeling made him shift his position. The Padre’s story was still vivid in his mind; he could never forget it. Nor could he forget this woman’s place in it. These thoughts set him speculating uneasily as to the possible result of her visit.
He surreptitiously glanced over at the silent figure beside the stove. The man’s pipe was still in his mouth, but it had gone out. Also he saw, in that quick glance, that the fire in the stove had fallen low. But he made no move to replenish it. The night was very sultry.
He turned again to his contemplation of the outer world. The night was black, jet black. There was not a star visible. The mountain air had lost its cool snap, the accustomed rustle of the woods was gone. There was a tense stillness which jarred in an extraordinary degree.
“A desperate, dark night,” he said suddenly. He was merely voicing his thought aloud.
The sound of his voice roused the other from his reverie. The Padre lifted his head and removed the pipe from between his teeth.
“Yes—and hot. Throw us your tobacco.”
Buck pitched his pouch across, but remained where he was.
“Guess that leddy’s down at the farm by now,” Buck went on. “Joan was guessing she’d get around to-day. That’s why I didn’t go along there.”
“Yes, she is there.” The Padre lit his pipe and smoked steadily.
Buck turned quickly.
“How d’you know?”
“I met her on the trail. They missed their way this morning and hit the trail below here, at the foot of the steps.”
“You didn’t—let her see you?” Buck asked, after a pause.
The Padre smiled.
“I spoke to her. I put her on the right trail.”
“You spoke to her?” Buck’s tone was half incredulous. “Did she—recognize you?”
The other nodded.
“You see, I’ve not changed much—except for my hair.”
“What did she do—say?”
The Padre’s smile remained.
“Said—I should see her again.”
For some moments the two men faced each other across the room. The yellow lamplight plainly revealed their different expressions. The Padre’s smile was inimitable in its sphinx-like obscurity, but Buck’s eyes were frankly troubled.
“And that means?” Buck’s question rang sharply.
“She has neither forgotten nor—forgiven.”
Buck returned abruptly to his contemplation of the night, but his thoughts were no longer the happy thoughts of the lover. Without knowing it he was proving to himself that there were other things in the world which could entirely obscure the happy light which the presence of Joan shed upon his life.
The Padre sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, while his pipe burned hot and the smoke of it rose thickly. It was the only outward sign he gave of any emotion. Buck suddenly forgot the night. A desperate thought was running hotly through his brain. His friend’s admission had set his fertile young brain working furiously. It was traveling just whither a vivid imagination carried it. A reckless purpose was swiftly formulating.
After a while he turned again. His resolve was taken on the impulse of the moment.
“Padre,” he said, “you shall never——” But his sentence remained incomplete. He broke off, listening.
The other was listening too.
There was the sharp cracking of a forest tree—one of those mysterious creakings which haunt the woodland night. But there was another sound too. The trained ears of these men caught its meaning on the instant. It was the vague and distant sound of wheels upon the soft bed of the sandy trail.
“A heavy wagon, an’—two hosses,” said Buck.
The Padre nodded.
“Coming from the direction of the farm. Sounds like the old team,—and they’re being driven too fast for heavy horses. Joan hasn’t got a saddle-horse of her own.”
His last remark explained his conviction, and the suggestion found concurrence in Buck’s mind.
They waited, and the sound grew louder. Then, without a word, Buck passed out of the room.
A few minutes later the rumble of wheels ceased, and the Padre heard Buck’s voice greeting Joan.
* * *
A tragic light shone in Joan’s eyes as she stood in the centre of the room glancing from her lover to his friend. She was searching for an opening for what she had come to say. Her distraught brain was overwhelmed with thoughts she could not put into words. She had driven over with the heavy team and wagon because she had no other means of reaching these two, and unless she reached them to-night she felt that by morning her sanity must be gone. Now—now—she stood speechless before them. Now, her brain refused to prompt her tongue. All was chaos in her mind, and her eyes alone warned the men of the object of her coming.
It was the Padre’s voice that finally guided her. He read without hesitation or doubt the object of her mission.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I am Moreton Bucklaw, the man accused of your father’s murder.”
Suddenly the girl’s head drooped forward, and her hands covered her face as though to shut out the terrible truth which the man’s words conveyed.
“O God!” she cried. “Then she was not lying to me.”
Buck’s eyes, fierce, almost savage a
t the sight of the girl’s despair, shot a swift glance at his friend. It was a glance which only the white-haired man could have understood. To the looker-on it would have expressed a terrible threat. To the Padre it was the expression of a heart torn to shreds between love and friendship.
“If she told you I killed him—she was lying.”
The man had not raised his tone. There was no other emotion in his manner than distress for the girl’s suffering.
Joan looked up, and a gleam of hope struggled through her despair.
“Then it’s not true? Oh, I knew it—I knew it! She was lying to me. She was lying to me as she has always lied to me. Oh, thank God, thank God!” She dropped back into the chair that had been placed for her, but which up to that moment she had ignored.
The two men waited for her emotion to pass. Buck as yet had nothing to say. And the Padre knew that until she was mistress of herself words would only be wasted.
Presently she looked up. Her eyes were dry, and the agony that had sent her upon her headlong mission was passing. The Padre’s relief showed in the smile with which he met her glance. Buck stood steadily regarding her, longing to help her, but knowing that his time had not come yet.
“Tell me,” she said, struggling hard for steadiness. “Tell me all—for I—I cannot seem to understand anything.”
The Padre bowed his head.
“You know your own story. It is all substantially true that Mercy Lascelles has told you. All, that is, except that she claims I killed your father. She did not see your father die. I did. I was the only one who saw him die—by his own hand, a desperate and ruined man. Listen, and I will tell you the whole story without concealing one tittle of my own doings and motives.”
Half an hour passed while the man’s even voice recited without emotion all the details leading up to Charles Stanmore’s death. He kept nothing back—his own love for the then handsome Mercy, and the passionate insult he had offered her, when, in her love for the dead man, she became his housekeeper. He intended that, for Buck’s sake, this girl should know everything, nor had he the least desire for any concealment on personal account. He did not spare his own folly and the cowardice of his flight. He felt that concealment of any sort could only injure Buck, whom at all costs he must not hurt. He even analyzed, with all the logic at his command, Mercy Lascelles’ motives in accusing him. He declared his belief in her desire to marry the widowed man and her own consequent hatred of himself, whose presence was a constant thwart to her plans.
And when he had finished something of the trouble had passed out of the girl’s eyes. The color had returned to her cheeks, and he knew that he had achieved his purpose.
“I suppose it is terrible to you, child, to hear me speak of your aunt, one of your own sex, a blood relative, in this way,” he said in conclusion. “But I believe that she is absolutely mad in her hatred of me. And now that she has discovered my whereabouts nothing less will satisfy her than that I must stand my trial, and—go to the electric chair. It is my purpose to stand my trial. It was for that reason, when I recognized her this morning, before she even saw me, I purposely thrust myself in her way. I intended that she should not lack opportunity, and my reason—well, that doesn’t much matter.”
The girl nodded.
“I think I am glad of your decision,” she said simply. “You see, when you have established your innocence——”
“I fear that result is—doubtful.”
The man’s admission was quite frank. Nor was there even a suggestion of regret in his voice. But Joan’s heart gripped with alarm. The thought of such a contingency had never occurred to her simple mind. He had not committed murder. Then, of course, he was innocent. It had all been made so simple. Now—now she was suddenly overwhelmed with a new terror.
“You mean—you cannot prove—your innocence?” she cried incredulously.
“You forget I was the only man with him. I was the last person with him. And—I fled when I should have stayed to—help. The circumstances are terribly against me.”
Joan’s throat had suddenly parched. She struggled to speak, but no sound came. She looked to Buck for help and the man ran to her side.
The gentle pressure of his protecting arm, as he rested one caressing hand upon her shoulder, gave her the relief she needed.
“Oh, Buck, Buck! For the love of Heaven say something—do something,” she appealed. “They will kill him for a crime—of which he is innocent.”
Suddenly the Padre’s eyes glowed with a strange light of happiness. The girl’s appeal to Buck had been the one saving touch in the midst of the cloud of tribulation overshadowing him. The daughter of his best friend, the daughter of the man he was supposed to have done to death, had given her verdict. She believed in his innocence. He sighed with the depth of his thankfulness. He could now face whatever lay before him with perfect equanimity.
But Buck had yet to play his part in the little drama so swiftly working itself out. His part was far different to the passive attitude of the other man. He had no tolerance for the possible sacrifice of an innocent life at the demand of a crazy woman who had come so nearly wrecking the life of the girl he loved. As Joan appealed to him his eyes lit with a sudden fire of rebellion. And his answer came in a hot rush.
“You think I’m goin’ to let him die, Joan?” he cried, the hot blood staining his cheeks and brow. “I tell you he won’t. I swear to you, sure, sure, he shan’t die a murderer’s death! I tell you right here, little gal, ther’ ain’t a sheriff in the country big enough to take him. He says he must give up to arrest when the time comes. Wal, he’ll have to do it over my dead body.”
His words were in answer to Joan’s appeal, but they were hurled at the man beside the fire, and were a defiance and a challenge from the depths of a loyal heart.
The Padre’s smile was good to see. But he shook his head. And instantly Joan caught at the enthusiasm which stirred her lover and hugged it to herself. She sprang to her feet, and a wonderful light shone in her eyes.
“Buck is right, Padre. He is right,” she cried. “Do you hear? You shall not take the risk, you must not. Oh, Padre! you must live for our sakes. We know your innocence, then what more is needed after all these years? For once let us be your mentors—you who have always been the mentor of others. Padre, Padre, you owe this to us. Think of it! Think of what it would mean. A murderer’s death! You shall not, you cannot give yourself up. Buck is right. I, too, am with him.”
She turned to the man at her side, and, raising her arms, clasped her hands about his neck.
“Buck—my Buck. Let us swear together that, while we have life, he shall never be the victim of this crazy, terrible woman. It shall be our fight—yours and mine.”
Buck gazed down into her beautiful, pleading eyes as he clasped her slim body in his strong, young arms. Her eyes were alight with a love, radiant in its supremacy over her whole being. Her championship of his innocent friend would have endeared her a thousandfold had such a thing been possible. In that moment it was as though her courage, her loyalty, had completed the bond between them. His jaws gritted tight. His eyes shone with a fervent resolution.
“It goes, little gal,” he cried. “It’s our lives for his. It sure goes—every time.”
* * *
CHAPTER XXIX
BEASLEY IN HIS ELEMENT
The camp was sweltering under an abnormal heat. There was not one breath of the usual invigorating mountain air. A few more degrees of humidity, and the cup of endurance would have been filled to overflowing and toiling humanity breathing something like sheer moisture. The sky was heavy and gray, and a dull sun, as though it too had been rendered faint-hearted, was painfully struggling against the laden atmosphere.
The work of the camp went on. For hours human nature wrestled with a growing inertia which robbed effort of all snap. But gradually, as the day wore on, the morning impetus gave way, and peevish tongues voiced the general plaint. Men moved about slowly, their tongues actively cursi
ng. They cursed the heat as they mopped their dripping brows. They cursed the flies, and hurled mighty blows for their destruction. They cursed all work, and gold became the last thing in the world they desired at such a price. They cursed the camp, the country, but more than all they cursed the black hill from which they drew their living.
Then came acknowledgment of defeat. One by one at first, and finally in batches, they shouldered their tools and moodily withdrew from the attack. As they went weary eyes glanced back with hate and disgust at the frowning buttresses of the hill, with awe at the steaming cloud hanging above the simmering waters of the suspended lake. The depressing shadow of Devil’s Hill had for the moment become intolerable.
Beasley hated the heat just as cordially as these toilers, but he would have hated still more its sudden going, and the consequent appeasement of unnatural thirsts, which it was his pleasure and profit to slake. His own feelings were at all times subservient to his business instincts. This sudden, unaccountable heat meant added profit to him, therefore his complaint was half-hearted. It was almost as if he feared to give offense to the gods of his good fortune.
Then, too, Beasley had so many things to occupy his busy brain. His trade was one that required much scheming, a matter in which he reveled at all times. Problems of self-interest were his salt of life, and their accurate solution brought him as near earthly happiness as well could be.
Curiously enough problems were always coming his way. He chanced upon one that morning while busy in his storeroom, his attention divided between pricing and stacking new dry goods and smashing flies on the back of his superheated neck. And it served him with food for thought for the rest of the day.
It took him quite unawares, and for that very reason gave him ample satisfaction. He was bending over a pile of rolls of fabric when a voice suddenly hailed him from the doorway.
“Are you the proprietor of the livery stables?”
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