The Golden Woman

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  In the midst of this atmosphere a further interest arose. The last person Beasley expected to see in his bar at that hour of the day was Buck. He was not even sure he wanted to see him after what had passed. Yet Buck suddenly pushed his way through the swing-doors.

  The saloon-keeper was in the act of replacing the whisky bottle under the counter, having just served his fresh customers, when his foxy eyes encountered the dark face of the man he most hated on Yellow Creek.

  In a moment he was all smiles.

  “Howdy, Buck,” he cried, as though the sight of him was the one thing in the world he desired. Then he covertly winked at those nearest him.

  His wink conveyed all he intended, and the men turned and eyed the newcomer curiously.

  Buck responded to the greeting indifferently, and proceeded to business. He had not come for the pleasure of the visit. He passed a slip of paper across the counter.

  “Can you do them for me?” he inquired. “Just cast an eye over that list. If you’ll get ’em put up I’ll ride in in the mornin’ an’ fetch ’em out. I’ll need ’em early.”

  His manner was short and cold. It was his way with Beasley, but now there was more in his mind to make for brevity.

  Beasley studied the paper closely. And as he read down the list a smile spread over his mean face. It was a long list of supplies which included rifle and revolver ammunition. He whistled softly.

  “Mackinaw!” Then he looked up into the dark eyes of the waiting man, and his own expressed an unwonted good-humor. “Say, wot’s doin’ at the fort? Gettin’ ready for a siege? Or—or are you an’ the Padre chasin’ the long trail?”

  Buck’s thin cheeks flushed as he pointed at the paper.

  “You can do that for me?” he inquired still more coldly.

  Beasley shot a swift glance round at the interested faces of the men standing by.

  “Oh, guess I can do it,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Sure I can do it. Say, you fellers ain’t lightin’ out?”

  He winked again. This time it was deliberately at Buck.

  “They’re winter stores,” said Buck shortly.

  Then, as Beasley laughed right out, and he became aware of a general smile at his expense, he grew hot.

  “What’s the matter?” he demanded sharply. And his demand was not intended for the saloon-keeper alone.

  “Ke’p your shirt on, Buck,” exclaimed Beasley, with studied good-nature. “We couldn’t jest help but laff.” Then his eyes became sentimentally serious. “Y’ see, we bin worried some. We wus guessin’ when you came along. Y’ see, ther’s a sheriff an’ a big posse o’ dep’ties comin’ right along to this yer camp. Y’ see, ther’s some guy chasin’ around the hills, an’ he’s wanted fer—murder.”

  The man was watching for an effect in Buck’s face. But he might as well have looked for expression in that of a sphinx.

  “Wal?”

  It was the only response Buck afforded him.

  “Wal,” Beasley shifted his gaze. He laughed feebly, and the onlookers transferred their attention to him. “Y’ see, it was sort o’ laffable you comin’ along buyin’ winter stores in August, an’ us jest guessin’ what guy the sheriff would be chasin’—in the hills. He won’t be smellin’ around the fort now?” He grinned amiably into the dark face. But deep in his wicked eyes was an assurance which Buck promptly read.

  Nor did it take him a second to come to a decision. He returned the man’s look with a coolness that belied his real feelings. He knew beyond question that Mercy Lascelles had already commenced her campaign against the Padre. He had learned of her journey into the camp from Joan. The result of that journey had not reached him yet. At least it was reaching him now.

  “You best hand it me straight, Beasley,” he said. “Guess nothin’ straight is a heap in your line. But jest for once you’ve got no corners to crawl around. Hand it out—an’ quick.”

  Buck’s manner was dangerously sharp set. There was a smouldering fire growing in his passionate eyes. Beasley hesitated. But his hesitation was only for the reason of his own growing heat. He made one last effort to handle the matter in the way he had originally desired, which was with a process of good-humored goading with which he hoped to keep the company present on his side.

  “Ther’s no offense, Buck,” he said. “At least ther’ sure needn’t to be. You never could play easy. I wus jest handin’ you a laff—same as we had.”

  “I’m waitin’,” said Buck with growing intensity, utterly ignoring the explanation.

  But Beasley’s hatred of the man could not be long denied. Besides, his last attempt had changed the attitude of the onlookers. There was a lurking derision, even contempt in their regard for him. It was the result of what had occurred before Buck’s coming. They expected him to talk as plainly as he had done then. So he gave rein to the venom which he could never long restrain.

  “Guess I hadn’t best ke’p you waitin’, sure,” he said ironically. Then his eyes suddenly lit. “Winter stores, eh?” he cried derisively. “Winter stores—an’ why’ll the Padre need ’em, the good kind Padre, when the sheriff’s comin’ along to round him up fer—murder?”

  There was a moment of tense silence as the man flung his challenge across the bar. Every eye in the room was upon the two men facing each other. In the mind of every one present was only one expectation. The lightning-like play of life and death.

  But the game they all understood so well was not forthcoming. For once Buck’s heat was controlled by an iron will. To have shot Beasley down where he stood would have been the greatest delight of his life, but he restrained the impulse. There were others to think of. He forced himself to calmness.

  Beasley had fired his shot in the firm conviction it would strike home unfailingly. Yet he knew that it was not without a certain random in it. Still, after what had been said, it was imperative to show no weakening. He was certain the quarry was the Padre, and his conviction received further assurance as he watched Buck’s face.

  For an instant Buck would willingly have hurled the lie in his teeth. But to do so would have been to lie himself, and, later, for that lie to be proved. There was only one course open to him to counter the mischief of this man. He looked squarely into the saloon-keeper’s face.

  “The truth don’t come easy to you, Beasley,” he said calmly, “unless it’s got a nasty flavor. Guess that’s how it’s come your way to tell it now.”

  “Winter stores,” laughed the man behind the bar. And he rubbed his hands gleefully, and winked his delight in his own astuteness at the men looking on.

  Then his face sobered, and it seemed as though all his animosity had been absorbed in a profound regret. His whole attitude became the perfection of a righteous indignation and sympathy, which almost deceived Buck himself.

  “See here, Buck,” he exclaimed, leaning across his bar. “You an’ me don’t always see things the same way. Guess I don’t allus hit it with the Padre. No, I guess ther’ ain’t a heap of good feeling among the three of us. But before you leave here I want to say jest one thing, an’ it’s this. Sheriff or no sheriff, deputies or no deputies, if they’re lookin’ fer the Padre for murder I say it’s a jumped-up fake. That man couldn’t do a murder, not to save his soul. An’ it’ll give me a whole heap o’ pleasure fixin’ up your winter stores. An’ good luck to you both—when you hit the long trail.”

  A murmur of approval went round the room amongst those of the company who remembered the days before the gold strike. And Beasley, in his long career of mischief, almost achieved popularity.

  Buck could scarcely believe his ears. And his incredulity was not lessened as he looked into the furtive eyes of the man who had expressed himself so cordially.

  But he had been given the opportunity he knew he would need sooner or later. He knew that there were men in the camp who would stand by the Padre in emergency, and they must know the truth. Since Aunt Mercy’s campaign had opened, and the news of it was spread abroad, these men must be told the fact
s, and know his own attitude. He might well need their assistance in the future, as they, in the past, had needed the Padre’s.

  “I take it you mean that, Beasley,” he said without warmth. Then, ignoring the man, he turned to those gathered about him. “I don’t know how Beasley’s got this thing, fellers,” he said, in his simple fashion. “It don’t matter, anyway. I hadn’t a notion the sheriff was comin’ along yet, either. That don’t matter. Anyways I guessed he would be comin’ sooner or later, an’ that’s the reason I’m layin’ in stores of gun stuff an’ things. Yes, he’s comin’ for the Padre on a charge of murder, a low-down charge of murder that he never committed. You know the ways of the law, an’ how things sure go in such rackets. The charge is nigh twenty years old. Wal, maybe it’ll be nigh impossible for him to prove he didn’t do it. It looks that way. Anyways, I tell you right here, ther’ ain’t no sheriff in this country goin’ to git him while I’m alive. He’s raised me from a starvin’ kid, an’ he’s bin the biggest thing on earth to me, an’ I’m goin’ to see him through. You fellers, some o’ you, know the Padre. You know what he’s done right here to help folks when they were starvin’. He even sold his farm to help. Sold it right out, an’ give up twenty years’ work to hand grub to empty bellies. Wal, they want him fer murder. Him, the best and straightest man I ever knew. I ain’t got nothin’ more to say ’cept Beasley’s right—the sheriff’s comin’. An’ when he comes he’ll find the hills hotter than hell fer him, an’ I’ll have a hand in makin’ ’em that way.” He turned abruptly to Beasley, and pointed at the paper lying on the counter. “You’ll do them things for me, an’ I’ll get ’em to-morrow.”

  He turned away, flinging his farewell back over his shoulder as he reached the door.

  “So long, fellers,” he cried, and pushed his way out.

  The moment he had gone every tongue was let loose. The gamblers cashed their “chips” at the bar. There was no more play that afternoon. Excitement ran high, and discussion was at fever heat. To a man those who knew the Padre, and those who didn’t, commended Buck’s attitude. And amongst the older hands of the camp was an ardent desire to take a hand in resisting the law. Beasley was in agreement with nearly everybody. He expressed a wonderful fury at the absurdity and injustice, as he described it, of the charge. And, finally, he possessed himself of the floor again for the purposes of his own subtle scheming.

  “What did I tell you, fellers?” he cried, when he had obtained a general hearing. “What did I tell you?” he reiterated in a fine fury. “I don’t like him, but Buck’s a man. A straight, bully feller. He’s goin’ to do the right thing. He’ll stand by that Padre feller while he’s got a breath in his body, an’ he’ll shoot the sheriff up as sure as sure. An’ why? Because that feller, the Padre, sold his farm to help us old hands. Because he sold his farm to that ‘Jonah’ gal, who’s brought all this trouble about. If she hadn’t come around Pete an’ Ike would have bin living now. If she hadn’t come around the Padre wouldn’t be wanted for a murder he never committed. If she hadn’t come around Buck wouldn’t have set himself up agin the law, an’ found himself chasin’ the country over—an outlaw. D’yer see it? You’re blind if you don’t.” He brought his clenched fist down on the counter in a whirlwind of indignation. “She’s got to go,” he cried. “I tell you, she’s got to go. Chase her out. Burn her out. Get rid of her from here. An’ I got five hundred dollars says—do it.”

  Beasley knew his men. And in every eye he saw that they were with him now. Nor could anything have pleased him more than when Curly shouted his sudden sympathy.

  “Beasley’s right, boys,” he cried. “She’s brought the rotten luck. She must go. Who’s to say whose turn it’ll be next?”

  “Bully for you,” cried Beasley. “Curly’s hit it. Who’s the next victim of the rotten luck of this Golden Woman?”

  His final appeal carried the day. The men shouted a general approval, and Beasley reveled inwardly in his triumph. He had played his hand with all the skill at his command—and won. And now he was satisfied. He knew he had started the ball rolling. It would grow. In a few hours the majority of the camp would be with him. Then, when the time came, he would play them for his own ends, and so pay off all his old scores.

  The Padre would be taken. He would see to that. The sheriff should know every detail of Buck’s intentions. Buck would ultimately be taken—after being outlawed. And Joan—the proud beauty whom Buck was in love with—well, if she got out with her life it would be about all she would escape with.

  Beasley felt very happy.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXX

  THE MOVING FINGER

  The Padre stood at the top of the steps and looked out over the wide stretching valley below him. His long day was drawing to a close, but he felt no weariness of body. There was a weariness of mind, a weariness of outlook. There was something gray and cold and hopeless upon his horizon, something which left him regretful of all that which lay within his view now.

  There was a half smile in his eyes, as, for a moment, they rested on the narrow indistinct trail which looked so far below him. He was thinking of that apparition he had met only a few days back, the apparition which had suddenly leapt out of his past. It was all very strange, very wonderful, the working of those mysterious things which make it certain that no page in a human creature’s life can be turned once and for all.

  Yes, it was all very wonderful. The hand of Fate had begun to move against him when he had greeted that starving fragment of humanity at the trail-side, more than twenty years ago. It had moved steadily since then in every detail of his life. It had been progressing in the work he had done in the building of his farm. Its moving finger had pointed every day of Buck’s young life. In the necessities of those poor gold-seekers it had shown its unerring direction, even in the spirit which had prompted him to help them, which involved the selling of his farm.

  Then he saw its bitter irony. It had done its work by bringing Joan into contact with Buck, and, with cruel derision, had shown him how unnecessary his sacrifice had been. Then had come all those other things, moving so swiftly that it was almost impossible to count each step in the iron progress of the moving finger. It had come with an overwhelming rush which swept him upon its tide like a feather upon the bosom of the torrent. And now, caught in the whirling rapids below the mighty falls, he could only await the completion of the sentence so long since pronounced.

  The smile broadened, spreading gently across his face. He realized he was admitting all he had denied to Joan. But the thought brought him no weakening. The wisdom of years had taught him much that must not be communicated to a younger generation. Life would teach them in their turn; they must not learn the truths which lay before them before their time. It was better to lie than to destroy the hope of youth.

  His conscience was clear, his resolve perfect in its steadiness. The happiness of two people was at stake. For Buck he would give up all. There was no sacrifice too great. For Joan—she was the fair daughter of his oldest friend. His duty was clear by her. There was one course, and one course only that he could see for himself. To remove the last shadow from these young lives he must face the ordeal which lay before him. What its outcome might be he could not quite see, but he was not without hope. There were certain details surrounding the death of his friend which did not fit in with his guilt. He had no weapon upon him in that house. Nor was there the least reason for the crime. He knew he would be confronted by the evidence of a woman who hated him, a woman capable of manufacturing evidence to suit her own ends. But, whatever else she might do, she could not produce a weapon belonging to him, nor could she invent a reason for the crime that could not be disproved. At least this was the hope he clung to.

  However, he knew that he could not leave the shadow of his possible guilt to cloud the lives of these two, just setting out on their long journey together. The possibilities of it for harm were far too great. The ocean of hot, youthful love was far too possible of disast
er for an unnecessary threat to overshadow it.

  No, he had refused the request of these two from the first moment when he had realized his duty by them, and now, after careful thought, his resolve remained unshaken.

  Still, he was not without regret as he gazed out over that vast world he had learned to love so well. The thought of possibly never seeing it again hurt him. The wide valleys, the fair, green pastures, the frowning, mysterious woods with their utter silence, the butting crags with their barren crests, or snow-clad shoulders. They held him in a thrall of almost passionate devotion. They would indeed be hard to part with.

  He looked away down the gaping jaws of the valley at the black crest of Devil’s Hill. It was a point that never failed to attract him, and now more so than ever. Was it not round this hill that all his past efforts had been concentrated?

  He studied it. Its weirdness held him. A heavy mist enveloped its crown, that steaming mist which ever hung above the suspended lake. It was denser now than usual. It had been growing denser for the last two days, and, in a vague way, he supposed that those internal fires which heated the water were glowing fiercer than usual. He glanced up at the sky, and almost for the first time realized the arduous efforts of the westering sun to penetrate the densely humid atmosphere. It was stiflingly hot, when usually the air possessed a distinct chill.

  But these things possessed only a passing interest. The vagaries of the mountain atmosphere rarely concerned him. His vigorous body was quite impervious to its changes. He picked up his “catch” of pelts and shouldered them. They were few enough, and as he thought of the unusual scarcity of foxes the last few days he could not help feeling that the circumstance was only in keeping with the rest of the passing events of his life.

  He made his way along the foot-path which wound its way through the pine bluff, in the midst of which the old fur fort lay hidden inside its mouldering stockade. He flung the pelts into the storeroom, and passed on to the house, wondering if Buck had returned from the camp, whither he knew he had been that day.