by Harold Titus
CHAPTER XXV
"The Light!"
Jed Avery sat alone. It was night, a moonlight night in Colorado, thewhole world bathed in a cold radiance that conduces to dreams andfantasies.
But as he sat alone Jed's mind wove no light reveries. Far from it,indeed. He was sodden in spirit, weakened in nerve.
He rested his body on the edge of a chair seat and leaned far forward,elbows on his knees. His fingers twined continually, and on occasionone fist hammered the palm of the other hand.
"You old fool!" he whispered. "You old fool! Now, if he's gone--"
For twenty-four hours he had not dared frame the words.
He lifted his eyes to the window, and against the moonlight stood abottle, its outlines distorted by incrustings of tallow. No candle wasin its neck. There was only the bottle.
After a time the old man got up and paced the floor, three steps eachway from the splotch of moonlight that came through the window. He hadbeen walking that way for a night and a day--and now it was anothernight.
While it was daylight he had walked outside, eyes ever on the road,hoping, fearing. And no one had come! Now, as the night wore on and theboy did not return, Jed's condition bordered on distraction.
His pacing became faster and more fast. He lengthened the limits of hiswalk to those of the room, and finally in desperation jerked open thedoor to walk outside.
But he did not leave the threshold. Two figures, a man and a horse,coming up the road held him as though robbed of the will to move. Hestood and stared, breathing irregularly. The man, who walked ahead,made his way slowly toward the gate. He was followed by the horse,followed as a dog might follow, for not so much as a strap was on theanimal. The man's movements were painful, those of the horse deliberate.
Jed knew both those figures too well to be mistaken, even though hissight dimmed.
He wanted to cry out, but dared not. One question alone crowded to getpast his teeth. The answer would mean supremest joy or sorrow. Fear ofthe latter held him mute.
The man unfastened the gate and let it swing open. "Come, boy," he saidgently, and the big animal stepped inside.
With the same slow movements again, the man closed the bars.
Jed stood silent. A coyote high on the hills lifted his voice in a thinyapping, and the sound made Old VB shiver.
The boy came slowly toward the house. He saw Jed, but gave no sign, nordid the old man move. He stood there, eyes on the other in a mistedstare, and VB stopped before him, putting a hand against the wall forsupport.
Then came the question, popping its way through unwilling, tight lips:
"Shall I light th' candle, Young VB?"
His voice was shrill, strained, vibrant with anxiety. But VB did notanswer--merely lifted a hand to his hot head.
"VB, when you left last night th' candle dropped down into th' bottlean' went out. I didn't dare light a new one to-night--" His voicebroke, and he paused a moment. "I didn't dare light it until I knowed.I've been settin' in th' dark here, thinkin' things--tryin' not tothink dark things."
One hand went halfway to his mouth in fear as he waited for the otherto answer. VB put a hand on Jed's shoulder, and the old man clamped hiscold fingers over it desperately.
"Yes, Jed--light it," he said huskily. Then he raised his head andlooked at the old man with a half smile. "Light it, Jed. Let it burn onand on, just for the sake of being bright. But we--we don't need it anymore. Not for the old reason, Jed."
The cold hand twitched as it gripped the hot one.
"Not for the old reason, Jed," VB continued. "There's a bigger, better,truer light burning now. It won't slip into the bottle; it can't beblown out. It didn't waver when the true crisis came. It'll alwaysburn; it won't slip down into the bottle. It's--it's the real thing."
He staggered forward, and Jed caught him, sobbing like a woman, a happywoman.
They had the whole story over then by the light of a fresh candle.
When Jed started forward with a cry at the recital of the shooting VBpushed him off.
"It's only a flesh wound; it don't matter--much. Mrs. Worth dressed it,and I'm all right. It's the Captain I want to tell about--the Captain,Jed!"
And he told it all, in short, choking sentences, stripping his soulnaked for the little rancher. He did not spare himself, not one lonelash. He ended, crushed and bleeding before the eyes of his friend.After a pause he straightened back in his chair, the new fire in hiseyes, the fire the man at Worth's had seen when he offered drink.
"But I've got to make it up to the Captain now," he said with a wildlittle laugh. "I've got to go on. He gave me the chance. He took meinto blackness, into the test I needed, and brought me back to light.I've got to be a man, Jed--a man--"
And throughout the night Jed Avery tended the wound and watched andmuttered--with joy in his heart.
Morning came, with quieted nerves for VB. He lay in the bunk, weak,immobile.
Jed came in from tending the horses.
"He didn't bleed, did he, VB?"
"No."
"It ain't what you thought, sonny. It ain't bad. Give him a rest an'he'll be better'n ever. Why, he's out there now, head up, whisperin'for you! You can't break a spirit like his unless you tear his vitalsout!"
VB smiled, and the smile swelled to a laugh.
"Oh, Jed, it makes me so happy! But it won't be as it was. I can neverlet him carry me again."
The old man turned on the boy a puzzled look.
"What you goin' to do with him, VB--turn him loose again?"
"Not that, Jed; he wouldn't be happy. He'll never carry me again, butperhaps--perhaps he could carry a light rider--a girl--a woman."
And from Jed: "Oh-o-o-o!"
An interval of silence.
"That is," muttered VB, "if she'll take him, and--"
"Would you want him away from you?" the old man insisted.
"Oh, I hope it won't be that, Jed! I hope not--but I want her to-- Youunderstand. Jed? You understand?"
The other nodded his head, a look of grave tenderness in the old eyes.
"Then--then, Jed, I'm all right. I can get along alone. Would you mindriding over and--asking her if she'd come--
"You see, Jed, I know now. I didn't before--I'm sure it's worth thecandle--and there'll be no more darkness; no lasting night for her if--"
Jed walked slowly out into the other room and picked up his spurs. VBheard him strap them on, heard his boots stamp across the floor andstop.
"I'd go, VB, but it ain't necessary."
The boy raised his head, and to his ears came the bellow of ahigh-powered motor, the sound growing more distinct with each passingsecond.
"Lord, how that woman's drivin'!" Jed cried. "Lordy!" And he ran fromthe house.
The bellow of the motor rose to a sound like batteries of Gatlings inaction; then came the wail of brakes.
With a pulsing thrill VB heard her voice upraised--with such a thrillthat he did not catch the dread in her tone as she questioned Jed.
She came to him swiftly, eyes dimmed with tears, without words, andknelt by his bunk, hands clasped about his head. For many minutes theywere so, VB gripping her fine, firm forearms. Then she raised her facehigh.
"And you wouldn't let me help?" she asked querulously.
He looked at her long and soberly, and took both her hands in his.
"It was the one place you couldn't help," he muttered. "It was thatsort--my love, I mean. I had to know; had to know that I wouldn't put ahateful mark on you by loving. I had to know that. Don't you see?"
She moved closer and came between him and the sunshine that pouredthrough the open door. The glorious light was caught by her hair andthrown, it seemed, to the veriest corners of the dingy little room.
"The light!" he cried.
She settled against him, her lips on his, and clung so. From outsidecame the shrilling call of the Captain. VB crushed her closer.
CHAPTER XXVI
To the Victor
Up the flagged
walk to the house of chill, white stone overlooking theNorth River went a messenger, and through the imposing front portal hehanded a letter, hidden away in a sheaf of others. A modest-appearingletter; indeed, perhaps something less than modest; possibly humble,for its corners were crumpled and its edges frayed. Yet, of all thepackages handed him, Daniel Lenox, alone at his breakfast, singled itout for the earliest attention.
And what he read was this:
Dear Father:
In my last letter--written ten years ago, it seems--I promised to tellyou my whereabouts when I had achieved certain ends. I now write totell you that I am at the Thorpe Ranch, one hundred and thirty milesnorthwest of Colt, Colorado, the nearest railroad point.
I can inform you of this now because I have won my fight against thething which would have stripped me of my manhood. And I want to makeclear the point that it was you, father, who showed me the way, whomade me realize to what depths I had gone.
I am very humble, for I know the powers that rule men.
When I left New York there was little in me to interest you, but I ammaking bold enough to tell you of the greatest thing in my life. I havewon the love of a good woman. We are to be married here the twentieth,and some day I will want to bring her East with me. I hope you willwant to see her.
Your son, Danny.
While the hand of the big clock made a quarter circle the man sat inertin his chair; limp, weak in body, spirit, and mind, whipped by thebitterest lashes that human mind can conjure. Then he raised his chinfrom his breast and rested his head against the back of the chair,while his hands hung loose at his sides.
His lips moved. "Hope--you will want to see her," he repeated in awhisper.
A pause, and again words:
"He wouldn't even ask me--wouldn't dream I wanted to--be there!"
An old man, you would have said, old and broken. The snap, theprecision that had been his outstanding characteristic, was gone. Butnot for long. The change came before the whispering had well died; thelines of purpose, of decision, returned to his face, his arms ceased tohang limp, the look in the eyes--none the less warm--became definite,focused.
Suddenly Daniel Lenox sat erect and raised the letter to the light oncemore.
"The twentieth!" he muttered. "And this is--"
Another train fumed at the distances, left cities behind, and crawledon across prairies to mountain ranges. As it progressed, dispatchers,one after another, sat farther forward in their chairs and the alertkeenness of their expression grew a trifle sharper. For the LenoxSpecial, New York to Colt, Colorado, invited disaster with every mileof its frantic rush across country. Freights, passenger trains, eventhe widely advertised limiteds, edged off the tracks to let it shriekon unhampered.
In the swaying private car sat the man who had caused all this disarrayof otherwise neat schedules. At regular, short intervals his handtraveled to watch-pocket and his blue eyes scrutinized the dial of histimepiece as though to detect a lie in the sharp, frank characters. Inthe other hand, much of the time, were held sheets of limp paper. Theyhad been folded and smoothed out again so many times and, though he wasan old man and one who thought mostly in figures, fondled so much, thatthe ink on them was all but obliterated in places.
He read and reread what was written there as the train tore over themiles, and as he read the great warmth came back to his eyes. With it,at times, a fear came. When fear was there, he tugged at his watchagain.
Up grades, through canyons, the special roared its way. At every stoptelegrams zitted ahead, and hours before the train was due anautomobile waited by the depot platform at Colt.
Daniel Lenox heeded not the enthusiastic train-men who held watches andcalculated the broken record as brakes screamed down and the race byrail ended. Bag in hand, he strode across the cinder platform andentered the waiting automobile, without a single glance for the groupthat looked at him wonderingly.
"You know the way to the Thorpe Ranch?" he asked the driver of the car.
"Like a book!"
"Can you drive all night?"
"I can."
"Good! We must be there as early to-morrow as possible."
And ten minutes before noon the next day the heavy-eyed driver threwout his clutch and slowed the car to a stop before the S Bar S ranchhouse. Saddled horses were there, a score of them standing with bridlereins down. Sounds of lifted voices came from the house, quickly lulledas an exclamation turned attention on the arrival.
From the ample door came a figure--tall and lean, well poised,shoulders square, feet firm on the ground. Pale, true, but surelyreturning strength was evidenced in his very bearing. VB's lips moved.His father, halfway to him, stopped.
"Dad!"
"Am I on time?" queried the older man.
"_Dad!_"
With a cry the boy was up on him, grasping both hands in his.
"I didn't--dare hope you'd want--Dad, it makes me so--"
The other looked almost fiercely into the boy's face, clinging to thehands that clutched his, shaking them tremblingly now and then. Thepenetrating blue eyes searched out every line in the boy's countenance,and the look in them grew to be such as VB had never seen before.
"Did you think I'd stay back there in New York and let you do all thisalone? Did you think I wouldn't come on, in time if I could, and tellyou how ashamed I am to have ever doubted you, my own blood, how mean athing was that which I thought was faith?"
His gaze went from VB to Gail, coming toward him clad all in simplewhite, flushing slightly as she extended her hand. He turned to her,took the hand, and looked deep into her big eyes. He tried to speak,but words would not come and he shook his head to drive back thechoking emotion.
"Bless you!" he finally muttered. "Bless you both. You're a man--Danny.And you--"
His voice failed again and he could only remain mute, stroking thegirl's hand.
Then Jed came up and greeted the newcomer silently, a bit grimly, asthough he had just forgiven him something.
"Come over here, you three," said VB, and led them over to where twohorses stood together. One was the bay the boy had ridden thatafternoon he charged down the ridge to make the great stallion his, andbeside him, towering, head up, alert, regally self-conscious, stood theCaptain. The bay bore VB's saddle. On the Captain's back perched one ofsmaller tree, silver mounted and hand tooled, with stirrups that weremuch too short for a man.
They looked the great horse over silently, moving about him slowly, andDanny pointed out his fine physical qualities to his father. A rattlingof wheels attracted them and they looked up to see a team offree-stepping horses swing toward them, drawing a light buckboard. Thevehicle stopped and from it stepped a man in the clothing of aclergyman.
"He's here, VB," Jed muttered. "To be sure, an' he's got his rope down,too. Th' iron's hot; th' corral gate's open and he's goin' to head youin. 'T ain't often you see such a pair of high-strung critters goin' inso plumb docile, Mister Lenox!"
And from the corner of his eye he saw the man beside him wipe his handacross his cheek, as though to brush something away.
The Captain pawed the ground sharply. Then he lifted his head high,drew a great breath, and peered steadily off toward the distant ridges,eagerly, confidently, as though he knew that much waited--out yonder.
