The Highgrader

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER XIII

  SHOT TO THE CORE WITH SUNLIGHT

  The storm had blown itself out before morning. A white world sparkledwith flashes of sunlight when Moya opened the door of the cabin andgazed out. Looking down into the peaceful valley below, it was hard tobelieve that death had called to them so loudly only a few hoursearlier.

  Kilmeny emerged from the shaft-house and called a cheerful good-morningacross to her.

  "How did you sleep?" he shouted as he crunched across the snow towardher.

  "Not so very well. Joyce slept for both of us."

  Their smiles met. They had been comrades in the determination to shieldher from whatever difficulties the situation might hold.

  "I'm glad. Is she quite herself this morning? Last night she was verytired and a good deal alarmed."

  "Yes. After you came Joyce did not worry any more. She knew you wouldsee that everything came right."

  The color crept into his bronzed face. "Did she say so?"

  "Yes. But it was not what she said. I could tell."

  "I'm glad I could do what I did."

  The eyes that looked at him were luminous. Something sweet and mockingglowed in them inscrutably. He knew her gallant soul approved him, andhis heart lifted with gladness. The beauty of her companion fascinatedhim, but he divined in this Irish girl the fine thread of loyalty thatlifted her character out of the commonplace. Her slender, vividpersonality breathed a vigor of the spirit wholly engaging.

  Joyce joined her friend in the doorway. With her cheeks still flushedfrom sleep and her hair a little disheveled, she reminded Jack of abeautiful crumpled rose leaf. Since her charm was less an expression ofan inner quality, she needed more than Moya the adventitious aids ofdress.

  The young woman's smile came out warmly at sight of Kilmeny. It was hercustom always to appropriate the available man. Toward this bronzedyoung fellow with the splendid throat sloping into muscular shouldersshe felt very kindly this morning. He had stood between her and trouble.He was so patently an admirer of Joyce Seldon. And on his own merits thevirility and good looks of him drew her admiration. At sight of thebruises on his face her heart beat a little fast with pleasurableexcitement. He had fought for her like a man. She did not care if he wasa workingman. His name was Kilmeny. He was a gentleman by birth, worth adozen Verinders.

  "Mr. Kilmeny, how can we ever thank you?"

  He looked at her and nodded gayly. "Forget it, Miss Seldon. I couldn'thave done less."

  "Or more," she added softly, her lovely eyes in his.

  No change showed in the lean brown face of the man, but his blood movedfaster. It was impossible to miss the appeal of sex that escaped atevery graceful movement of the soft sensuous body, that glowed from thedeep still eyes in an electric current flashing straight to his veins.He would have loved to touch the soft flushed cheek, the crisp amberhair clouding the convolutions of the little ears. His eyes were anindex of the man, bold and possessive and unwavering. They announced hima dynamic American, one who walked the way of the strong and fought forhis share of the spoils. But when she looked at him they softened.Something fine and tender transfigured the face and wiped out itssardonic recklessness.

  "The pressing question before the house is breakfast. There are baconand flour and coffee here. Shall I make a batch of biscuits and offeryou pot luck? Or do you prefer to wait till we can get to Goldbanks?"

  "What do you think?" Moya asked.

  "I think whatever you think. We'll not reach town much before noon. Ifyou can rough it for a meal I should advise trying out the new cook. Itreally depends on how hungry you are."

  "I'm hungry enough to eat my boots," the Irish girl announced promptly.

  "So am I. Let's stay--if our hosts won't object," Joyce added.

  "I'm quite sure they won't," Kilmeny replied dryly. "All right. A campbreakfast it is."

  "I'm going to help you," Moya told him.

  "Of course. You'd better wash the dishes as soon as we get hot water.They're probably pretty grimy."

  He stepped into the cabin and took off his coat. Moya rolled up hersleeves to the elbows of her plump dimpled arms. Miss Seldon hoveredabout helplessly and wanted to know what she could do.

  The miner had not "batched" in the hills for years without havinglearned how to cook. His biscuits came to the table hot and flaky, hisbacon was done to a turn. Even the chicory coffee tasted delicious tothe hungry guests.

  With her milk-white skin, her vivid crimson lips so exquisitely turned,and the superb vitality of her youth, Joyce bloomed in the sordid hutlike a flower in a rubbage heap. To her bronzed _vis-a-vis_ it seemedthat the world this morning was shimmering romance. Never before had heenjoyed a breakfast half as much. He and Miss Seldon did most of thetalking, while Moya listened, the star flash in her eyes and thewhimsical little smile on her lips.

  Joyce was as gay as a lark. She chattered with the childish artlessnessthat at times veiled her sophistication. Jack was given to understandthat she loved to be natural and simple, that she detested the shams ofsocial convention to which she was made to conform. Her big lovely eyeswere wistful in their earnestness as they met his. It was not wholly apose with her. For the moment she meant all she said. A delightfulexcitement fluttered her pulses. She was playing the game she likedbest, moving forward to the first skirmishes of that sex war which wasmeat and drink to her vanity. The man attracted her as few men ever had.That nothing could come of it beyond the satisfaction of the hour didnot mitigate her zest for the battle.

  They were still at breakfast when one of the Cornishmen pushed open thedoor and looked in. He stood looking down on them sullenly withoutspeaking.

  "Want to see me, Peale?" asked Kilmeny.

  "Did I say I wanted to see 'ee?" demanded the other roughly.

  "Better come in and shut the door. The air's chilly."

  The battered face of his companion loomed over the shoulder of Peale. ToKilmeny it was plain that they had come with the idea of makingthemselves disagreeable. Very likely they had agreed to force theircompany upon the young women for breakfast. But the sight of theirdainty grace, together with Jack's cheerful invitation, was too much fortheir audacity. Peale grumbled something inaudible and turned away,slamming the door as he went.

  The young miner laughed softly. If he had shown any unwillingness theywould have pushed their way in. His urbanity had disarmed them.

  "They're not really bad men, you know--just think they are," heexplained casually.

  "I'm afraid of them. I don't trust them," Joyce shuddered.

  "Well, I trust them while they're under my eye. The trouble with men ofthat stripe is that they're yellow. A game man gives you a fightingchance, but fellows of this sort hit while you're not looking. But youneedn't worry. They're real tame citizens this morning."

  "Yes, they looked tame," Moya answered dryly. "So tame I'm sure they'dlike to crucify you."

  "I daresay they would, but in this world a man can't get everything hewould like. I've wanted two or three pleasures myself that I didn'tget."

  His gaze happened to turn toward Joyce as he was speaking. He had beenthinking of nothing definite, but at the meeting of their eyes somethingflashed into birth and passed from one to the other like an electriccurrent. Jack knew now something that he wanted, but he did not admitthat he could not get it. If she cared for him--and what else had hereyes told him in the golden glow of that electric moment?--a hundredVerinders and Lady Farquhar could not keep them apart.

  His heart sang jubilantly. He rose abruptly and left the room because hewas afraid he could not veil his feeling.

  Joyce smiled happily. "Where is he going?" she asked innocently.

  Moya looked at her and then turned her eyes away. She had understood thesignificance of what she had seen and a door in her heart that had beenopen for weeks clanged shut.

  "I don't know, unless to get the horses," she said quietly.

  A few minutes later he returned, leading the animals. From the door ofthe shaft-hous
e the Cornishmen watched them mount and ride away. The mensmoked in sullen silence.

  THEY RODE THROUGH A WORLD SHOT TO THE CORE WITH SUNLIGHT.THE SNOW SPARKLED AND GLEAMED WITH IT. (p. 177)]

  Before they had ridden a hundred yards Joyce was in gay talk withKilmeny. She had forgotten the very existence of the miners. But Moyadid not forget. She had seen the expression of their faces as the horseshad passed. If a chance ever offered itself they would have theirrevenge.

  It was a day winnowed from a lifetime of ordinary ones. They rodethrough a world shot to the core with sunlight. The snow sparkled andgleamed with it. The foliage of the cottonwoods, which already hadshaken much of their white coat to the ground, reflected it in greensand golds and russets merged to a note of perfect harmony by the GreatArtist. Though the crispness of early winter was in the air, theirnostrils drew in the fragrance of October, the faint wafted perfume ofdying summer.

  Beneath a sky of perfect blue they pushed along the shoulder of thehill, avoiding the draw into which snow had drifted deep. Life stormedin their veins, glowed in their flushed cheeks, rang in the care-freelaughter of at least two of them. Jack broke trail, turning often in thesaddle with a lithe twist of his lean muscular body, to suggest a wordof caution at the bad places. Always then he discovered the deep violeteyes of Joyce Seldon with their smoldering fire. To let himself dwellupon her loveliness of fine-textured satiny skin, set off by theabundant crown of lustrous bronze hair, was to know again a quickenedpulse of delight.

  When he spoke it was with the languid drawl of the Western plainsman. Inhumor he feigned to conceal his passion, but Joyce knew him to bealertly conscious of her every word, every turn of her pliant body.

  They reached the road, where two could ride abreast. Sometimes he waswith the one, again with the other. Moya, who had not much to say thismorning, made it easy for him to be with Joyce. She did not need to betold that he was under the allure of that young woman's beauty; and notalone of her beauty, but of that provocative stimulating something thatcan be defined only as the drag of sex. All men responded to it whenJoyce chose to exert herself, many when she did not.

  Once he turned to point out to Moya some snow-covered mounds above theroad.

  "Graves of a dozen mule-skinners killed by Indians nearly thirty yearsago. My father was the only one of the party that escaped."

  Half a mile from town they met two men on horseback and exchanged news.All Goldbanks had been searching for them through the night. TheFarquhar party were wild with anxiety about them.

  Kilmeny gave prompt quiet orders. "Get back to town, boys, and tell LadyFarquhar that it's all right. We'll be along in a few minutes."

  The news of their safety spread as by magic. Men and women and childrenpoured into the streets to welcome them. It was as much as Kilmenycould do to keep back the cheering mob long enough to reach the hotel.Verinder, Lady Jim, and India came down the steps to meet them, CaptainKilmeny and Lord Farquhar both being away at the head of search parties.India and Lady Farquhar broke down without shame and cried as theyembraced the returned wanderers.

  "We thought ... we thought...." India could not finish in words, butMoya knew what she meant.

  "It was very nearly that way, dear, but everything is all right now,"her friend smiled through a film of tears.

  "It was Moya saved us--and afterward Mr. Kilmeny," Joyce explainedbetween sobs.

  The crowd below cheered again and Moya borrowed India's handkerchief towave. It touched her to see how glad these people were to know they hadbeen rescued.

  Lady Farquhar thanked Kilmeny with a gulp in her throat. "We'll want tohear all about it and to get a chance to thank you properly. Will youcome to dinner this evening? Joyce and Moya should be rested by then."

  Jack accepted promptly. "I'll be very glad to come."