Beth Norvell Part 31

"Y-yer said that the p-p-pony never l-lied like a man," he began doubtfully. "Yer d-did n't mean that f-fer me, did yer?"

There was something so deeply pathetic about the tone in which he asked this as to hurt her, and the slender fingers still clasping his sleeve suddenly closed more tightly.

"Senor, you mus' not say dat; you mus' not tink dat. No, no! I speak that only in fun, senor--nevah I believe dat, nevah. You good man, more good as Mercedes; she not vort' von leetle bit de lofe you say to her, but she feel mooch shame to have you tink dat she mean you ven she speak such ting in fun."

He halted suddenly, all remembrance of their surroundings, their possible peril, as instantly erased from his mind. He merely saw that girl face upturned to his in the starlight, so fair and pleading, he merely heard that soft voice urging her unworthiness, her sorrow. A great, broad-shouldered giant he towered above her, yet his voice trembled like that of a frightened child.

"An' d-don't yer say that n-no more," he stuttered in awkwardness.

"Somehow it hurts. L-Lord! yer don't h-have ter be s-s-so blame good ter be u-up ter my level. Th-they don't b-breed no a-angels back in ol' M-Missouri, whar I come from. It's m-mostly mules thar, an' I r-reckon we all g-git a bit mulish an' ornery. B-but I 'spect I 'm d-decent 'nough ter know the r-right sort o' girl when I s-stack up agin her. So I don't w-want ter hear no m-more 'bout yer not b-bein'

good. Ye 're sure g-good 'nough fer me, an' th-that 's all thar is to it. Now, yer w-won't say that no more, w-will yer?"

"No, senor," she answered simply, "I no say dat no more."

He remained standing before her, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, a great hulk in the gloom.

"Mercedes," he managed to say finally, "Ye're a-g-goin' ter ride away, an' m-maybe thar'll be o-one h.e.l.l o' a fracas up yere afore the rest o'

us g-g-git out o' this sc.r.a.pe. I d-don't reckon as it'll b-be me as will git h-hurt, but somehow I 'd f-feel a heap better if you 'd j-jest say them words what I a-asked yer to afore yer g-go, little g-girl; I would that."

She put her hands to her face, and then hid it against the pony's neck, her slight form trembling violently beneath the touch of his fingers.

The strange actions of the girl, her continued silence, half frightened him.

"Maybe yer a-ain't ready yit?" he questioned, his manner full of apology.

"Oh, senor, I cannot say dat--sure I cannot," she sobbed, her face yet hidden. "Maybe I say so some time ven I know eet bettah how eet ought to be; si, maybe so. But not now; I not tink it be jus' right to say now. I not angry--no, no! I ver' glad you tink so of Mercedes--it make me mooch joy. I not cry for dat, senor; I cry for odder tings.

Maybe you know some time, an' be ver' sorry vid me. But I not cry any more. See, I stan' up straight, an' look you in de face dis vay." She drew her hand swiftly across her eyes. "Dar, de tear all gone; now I be brav', now I not be 'fraid. You not ask me dat now--not now; to-morrow, nex' veek, maybe I know better how to say de trut' vat vas in my heart--maybe I know den; now eet all jumble up. I tink I know, but de vord not come like I vant eet."

He turned silently away from her, leading the pony forward, his head bent low, his shoulders stooped. There was a dejection apparent about the action which her eyes could not mistake. She touched him pleadingly.

"You no ver' angry Mercedes, senor?"

Brown half turned about, and rested one great hand upon her soft hair in mute caress.

"N-no, little girl, it a-ain't that," he admitted slowly. "Only I 'm b-blamed if I jest e-exactly grasp yer s-style. I reckon I 'll kn-know what yer mean s-sometime."

Could he have seen clearly he might have marked the swift, hot tears dimming her eyes, but he never dreamed of their presence, for her lips were laughing.

"Maybe so, senor, maybe. I glad you not angry, for I no like dat. Eet vas nice I fool you so; dat vas vat make de men lofe, ven dey not know everyting. Ven day know dem maybe eet all be over vid. So maybe I show you sometime, maybe not--_quien sabe_?"

If her lightly spoken words hurt, he realized the utter futility of striving then to penetrate their deeper meaning. They advanced slowly, moving in more closely against the great ridge of rocks where the denser shadows clung, the man's natural caution becoming apparent as his mind returned to a consideration of the dangerous mission upon which they were embarked. To-morrow would leave him free from all this, but now he must conduct her in safety to that mist-shrouded plain below.

They had moved forward for perhaps a dozen yards, the obedient pony stepping as silently as themselves, Mercedes a foot or two to the rear, when Brown suddenly halted, staring fixedly at something slightly at one side of their path. There, like a huge baleful eye glaring angrily at him, appeared a dull red glow. An instant he doubted, wondered, his mind confused. Tiny sparks sputtered out into the darkness, and the miner understood. He had blindly stumbled upon a lighted fuse, a train of destruction leading to some deed of h.e.l.l. With an oath he leaped recklessly forward, stamping the creeping flame out beneath his feet, crushing it lifeless between his heavy boots and the rock.

There was an angry shout, the swift rush of feet, the red flare of a rifle cleaving the night with burst of flame. In the sudden, unearthly glare Brown caught dim sight of faces, of numerous dark figures leaping toward him, but he merely crouched low. The girl! he must protect the girl! That was all he knew, all he considered, excepting a pa.s.sionate hatred engendered by one of those faces he had just seen. They were upon him in ma.s.s, striking, tearing like so many wild beasts in the first fierceness of attack. His revolver jammed in its holster, but he struck out with clenched fists, battering at the black figures, his teeth ground together, his every instinct bidding him fight hard till he died. Once they pounded him to his knees, but he struggled up, shaking loose their gripping hands, and hurling them back like so many children. He was crazed by then with raging battle-fury, his hot blood l.u.s.ting, every great muscle strained to the uttermost. He realized nothing, saw nothing, but those dim figures facing him; insensible to the blood trickling down the front of his shirt, unconscious of wound, he flung himself forward a perfect madman, jerking a rifle from the helpless fingers of an opponent, and smiting to right and left, the deadly-iron bar whirling through the air. He struck once, twice; he saw bodies whirl sidewise and fall to the ground. Then suddenly he seemed alone, panting fiercely, the smashed rifle-stock uplifted for a blow.

"It's the big fellow," roared a voice at his left. "Why don't you fools shoot?"

He sprang backward, crouching lower, his one endeavor to draw their fire, so as to protect her lying hidden among the rock shadows. He felt nothing except contempt for those fellows, but he could not let them hurt her. He stood up full in the starlight, shading his eyes in an attempt to see. Somebody cried, "There he is, d.a.m.n him!" A slender figure swept flying across the open s.p.a.ce like some dim night vision.

A red flame leaped forth from the blackness. The two stood silhouetted against the glare, reeled backward as it faded, and went down together in the dark.

CHAPTER XXVI

BENEATH THE DARKNESS

Running blindly through the darkness toward the sound of struggle came Hicks and Winston. They caught no more than faint glimpses of scattering, fleeing figures, but promptly opened fire, scarcely comprehending as yet what it all meant. Hicks, dashing recklessly forward, tripped over a rec.u.mbent figure in the darkness, and the two paused irresolutely, perceiving no more of the enemy. Then it was that Stutter Brown struggled slowly up upon his knees, still closely clasping the slender figure of the stricken girl within his arms. She neither moved nor moaned, but beneath the revealing starlight her eyes were widely opened, gazing up into his face, appearing marvellously brilliant against the unusual pallor of her cheeks. Her breath came short and sharp as if in pain, yet the lips smiled up at him.

"Oh, G.o.d!" he sobbed, "it was you!"

"Si, senor," the words faltering forth, almost as if in mockery of his own hesitating speech. "Once I said maybe I show you. I not know how den--now I know."

"Sh-show me, little girl--in G.o.d's n-name, show me wh-what?"

"Eef eet vas true dat I lofe you, senor. Now you tink eet vas so; now you all'ays know vat vas in de heart of Mercedes. Dis bettah vay as talk, senor--nevah you doubt no more."

He could only continue to look at her, the intense agony within his eyes beyond all expression of speech, his words caught helpless in the swelling throat. She lifted one hand in weak caress, gently touching his cheek with her white fingers.

"Oh, please don't, senor. Eet hurt me mooch to see you feel dat bad.

Sure eet does. Eet vas not de b.a.l.l.s vat hurt--no, no! I know dey not reach to you eef dey hit me de first. Eet joys me to do dat--sure eet does."

"Little g-girl, little g-girl," he faltered, helplessly, his great hands trembling as he touched her. "It w-was you I t-tried ter save.

I-I ran th-th-this way so th-they wouldn't sh-shoot toward yer."

She smiled happily up at him, softly stroking his hair, even while the lines of her face twitched from pain.

"Sure I know, senor. You von brav', good man--maybe now you all'ays tink I brav', good also. Dat be 'nough for Mercedes. Oh, dis be de bettar vay--de great G.o.d knows; sure He knows. Now, senor, I be yours all'ays, forever. I so happy to be lofed by good man. I just look in your face, senor, and tink, He lofe me, he ask me marry him. Maybe I not nevah do dat, for fear he tire, for fear he hear tings not nice about Mercedes. Dat make me sorrow, make me shame before him. Si, I know how it vould be. I know de Americanos; dey ver' proud of dare vives, dey fight for de honor. So eet make me mooch 'fraid, I no vort'

eet--no, no! I know not den de bettar vay. But de good Mother of G.o.d she show me, she tell me vat do--I run quick; I die for de man I lofe, an' den he all'ays know dat I lofe him; he know den bettar as eef I marry him. Si, si, eet vas all joy for Mercedes, now, my senor. Eet not hurt, eet make me glad to know."

Brown bent ever lower as he listened, his great body shaking in the effort to repress his sobs, his lips pressing against her white cheek.

"I kiss you now, senor," she whispered, faintly. "Just de once, like I vas your vife."

Their lips met, the very soul of each seemingly in the soft, clinging contact. Suddenly the poor girl sank backward, her head falling heavily upon his supporting arm, a peculiar shudder twitching her slender form.

"Mercedes!" he cried in alarm.

"Si, senor," the black eyes still wide open, but her words scarcely audible. "Eet is so hard to see you; maybe de stars hide behin' de cloud, but, but I lofe--"

"Yes, y-yes, I kn-know."

She lifted her arms, then dropped them heavily upon his bowed shoulders.

"Dar is such a brightness come, senor. Eet light everyting like eet vas de day. Maybe I be good too, now dat a good man lofe me; maybe de G.o.d forgif all de bad because I lofe. You tink so? Oh, eet--eet joys me so--senor! senor!"

Motionless, almost breathless, but for the sobs shaking his great figure, he held her tightly, bending low, her white cheek against his own, her head pillowed upon his arm. About them was the silence, the solemn night shadows, amid which waited Hicks and Winston earnestly watching. Finally, the latter spoke gently, striving to arouse the man; but Stutter Brown never lifted his head, never removed his eyes from the death-white face upheld by his arm. As though stricken to stone he remained motionless, seemingly lifeless, his face as pallid as the dead he guarded. Hicks bent over and placed one hand upon his shoulder.

"Stutter, ol' pard," he said, pleadingly. "I know it's mighty hard, but don't take on so; don't act that way. It can't do her no manner o'