CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Katherine was looking out the window at the storm-swept canyon. Juan hadridden to the San Pedro that morning. He figured that he might work up atrade of two unbroken colts for a gentle workhorse. Then when he wascompelled to make a trip to town with the team, Katherine could use herown pony, Fox, to care for the cattle on the range.
As the fury of the storm increased, she closed the heavy shutters toprotect the glass windows from the branches that were broken and flungviolently against the little house. The storm on the outside seemedemblematic of her life. Yet she remembered that it would pass and thesun creep gently into the places where the bruised things had beenbeaten down, and by degrees the beauty would be restored.
Lighting the lamp, she seated herself at the table and drew a lettertoward her. In the stress of events following her husband's illness andPaddy's subsequent murder, the publication of her verses had passed fromher memory. Many months had elapsed before Katherine happened to pick upthe magazine in which her poem was printed. Like a seed that had laindormant, waiting the proper season to germinate, rose an impulse to tellthe thoughts that surged within her. In this mood she had written astory of the little ranch in the lonely canyon, and the things that madelife for the woman living there with the old Mexican, the dog and themountains.
Hesitatingly, she had sent the story to a magazine; it had been acceptedand the editor had written a pleasant note to her, asking for more ofher work. The letter opened a world of possibilities. Not that shedreamed of leaping into fame and fortune as a writer; but because itgave her empty life an object. In grasping at a straw, she had found afriendly hand that dragged her from the black waves of despair andpointed a beacon light, encouraging her to struggle on. The way was nolonger lonely; it was peopled by unknown friends with whom she couldshare thoughts which had been suppressed for years.
The legacy received from her aunt would amply provide for Donnie'seducation until he was able to assist himself; she could remain on theranch with old Juan, caring for the remnant of the Circle Cross herd,which would furnish what they needed, with the help of the garden-patch,chickens and a cow. If she could sell a few stories, Donnie could spendhis summer vacations with her.
"Ten years," she thought, ashamed of the knowledge that it meant peaceunspeakable. "Ten years--and then?"
Forcing the thought from her, she took the second letter from itsenvelope. It was from Glendon's father, reiterating his offer to takethe boy and educate him. The tone of the letter was the same as thefirst one he had written his son about Donnie. It was a grim, hardletter. Katherine, reading between the lines, felt no resentment; sherealized the old man's keen disappointment in his only son, and herheart cried out in sympathy.
So she wrote, thanking her husband's father explaining courteously aboutthe legacy providing for the boy's education, and stating that she wouldremain at the ranch until such time as her husband returned to it.
Having sealed the letter, she sat idly listening to the storm, when aknock on the door startled her. She thought there was no one in theneighbourhood except herself and old Chappo at the Hot Springs ranch,and she wondered what could have brought him out in such a night. Asecond knock sounded before she opened the door, holding it withdifficulty against the wind, her eyes blinded by the darkness of thenight, and the rain beating across the threshold.
"Is that you, Chappo?" she called above the noise of the storm.
"Katherine!"
Her eyes became tragic and her face white as Powell entered the room.
"You?" she whispered doubtingly and yet with a little thrill of gladnessin her voice.
He grasped her cold hands, looking eagerly into her face.
"You poor child!" Only three words, but they seemed to cover her withwarmth and protection. Then she remembered, and drawing her hands fromhis, sank trembling into a chair, while Powell stood by her side. Agreat happiness illumined his face, for he had caught the look in hereyes and had heard the note in her voice.
"I tried to stay away," he said at last. "I thought I could blot you outof my life, but I could not. I was in New York when Limber's letterreached me, telling about the hold-up, trial and conviction. I took thefirst train home. If the letter had been a day later, I should have beenon my way to Europe. You will never know what it meant, picturing youalone here with this new trouble to bear."
"Don't!" pleaded Katherine. "Do you realize what has happened?"
"I know that the law has taken it course justly," replied Powell."Glendon's conviction is sufficient to justify your appeal for adivorce. No further sacrifice is necessary on your part. Surely you willnot hesitate, now?"
"He has no one else," she answered slowly, "Therefore my obligation isthe heavier."
"No obligation is due a man like him. He has heaped indignity andsuffering on you and Donnie. You cannot point one redeeming trait in hischaracter."
"He is my husband. Only death can cancel that obligation."
"He is a curse to humanity," Powell's voice vibrated with emotion. "Evenshould you remain here until he serves his time, it will a mean a morehideous life after he returns. Either Donnie will succumb to hisfather's influence, and you will have two brutes to cope with, or theboy will hate his father, and someday Glendon will kill Donnie or Donniewill kill his father. You have no right to force such a situation on theboy, to face such a future for yourself."
Katherine stood before him, her hands tightly locked together to controlthe trembling, she did not answer, but the look in her eyes told thatshe realized the truth of his words. Powell was overcome withcompunction and tenderness. His hands were laid gently on hers.
"Please forgive me," he begged. "It maddens me to see you in suchtrouble and know I am powerless to help you. The only gift I crave oflife is the privilege to serve and protect you and Donnie."
She lifted her eyes to the hands that were reaching out to her, then hergaze rested on his face.
"Can you understand," she said, "how a hungry beggar feels outside inthe storm and cold, looking into a warm room where a banquet of richfood and wine is spread before his eyes? I am starving for a crumb ofyour love; yet I must turn away hungry."
He started toward her with a cry of joy, but she moved farther from him.
"Do you think I would have told you, if I had not believed I had thestrength to turn away?" she asked in a dull voice. "It is my atonement.I tried so hard to be true to him, in spite of everything; but at nightyou came to me in my dreams, and I lived in another world, till dawnbrought me back here again. Oh, why does God let us make such terriblemistakes when He knows we have only one little life to live? I amtired--so tired of struggling!"
Powell knew that it was her moment of weakness, and the temptation wasstrong upon him to urge her; but he also knew that no happiness would belasting unless she came to him without a shadow of the past fallingacross their lives.
"You are right, Katherine," he said, gravely. "I shall not worry you anymore. All I ask is that you will remember I am waiting, to help you whenyou need me." He lifted her hand to his lips and then she watched himpass out into the storm.
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