Colorado Jim Part 30

"So you didn't kill him?"

Jim glared.

"Wal, it's jest as well, for I'd hev sure killed you."

"And I'd have been darned glad," growled Jim.

A great nausea overtook him, and he clutched the door-post for support.

Shanks looked at him, and shook his head.

"Better not hit the trail to-day. You got fever."

Jim shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm all right. I'll be mushing back to my shack. 'Tain't far--two days'

run. So long!"

He went to the sled, untethered the dogs, and sent them scuttling up the ravine. But the sickness remained. His head seemed nigh to bursting and all his limbs set up a chronic aching. He vaguely realized that he was in the grip of mountain fever, which had fastened on to his abused body and was breaking him up.

He had estimated his journey back to occupy two days, but he meant to do it in one. Illness on the trail meant death, and little as Life meant to him now, the natural desire to fight for it mastered the inclination to lay down and succ.u.mb to the fever and the elements.

Hour after hour the sled whirled along. Once he stopped and mechanically gave the dogs a meal. He became transformed into an automaton, acting by some subliminal power that set his direction correctly and a.s.sisted to maintain his body in an upright position.

Only one part of his brain functioned, and that part was memory. All the outstanding incidents of his adventurous career pa.s.sed before him in perspective. He saw himself fighting and winning from the time when first he had set out with a gripsack to seek a fortune in the wide plains of the West. At the end of this remarkable chain of successes was the dismal picture of his present failure. A woman, rather than suffer subjugation at his hands, had perjured her soul in a dreadful lie.

D'Arcy was right. Souls were not to be bought or "broken-in." He had won in the old days because the primitive law prevailed in all things. No longer did that work. Civilization a.s.sessed man on a different basis. The Law of the Wild had been superseded by other qualities--qualities which, presumably, he did not possess. It was a bitter enough awakening for him to feel himself a failure. Wandering, half deliriously, in a vicious mental circle he came again and again to that point. He had failed in the great test--he had failed to win the heart of the woman he truly loved. So much for all those physical attributes! They conquered women in the stone age. They might conquer women now, of a kind, but they were futile weapons to employ against a modern woman, benefiting by centuries of progress and culture, with fine mentality and inflexible will.

What then were the qualities that counted? Was it love? No, not love, for his bosom was bursting with it. Not sacrifice, for he would have died for her--and she must know it. Was it Culture? Was it Education? Chivalry?

His tortured brain could find no answer. The woman herself had faced that same inward tribunal. To her, too, the obstacle was not quite clear. But it was pride of birth. It saturated her; it subjugated all pa.s.sions, all emotions. It rendered her incapable of exercising her real feelings. She had placed the man low down in the scale, and had kept him there by the mere consciousness of this accident of birth.

The man behind the sled ceased to ponder the enigma. His mind became a complete blank as the shack hove into sight along the valley. He lurched from side to side as the dogs, scenting their kennel, increased their speed.

The sled hit a tree, and flung him to the ground, but the dogs went on. He raised himself to his knees, his teeth chattering in ghastly fashion. His half-blind eyes could just make out the hut in the distance, a black smudge against the pure white snow. With a great effort he began to crawl towards his refuge.... His legs felt like lead and soon refused to respond to the weakened will that moved them.

He uttered a deep groan and collapsed in the snow, his head buried in his great arms.

CHAPTER XVII

A CHANGE OF FRONT

For five days the fever raged, and then it left him, a mere wreck of his former self. All through that unconscious period the strangest things had happened. Arms had lifted him up from the pillow, and hands had fed him with liquid foods. Some glorious half-seen stranger had taken him under her care; but her face was hidden in a queer mist that floated before his eyes. At times he had tried to rise from the bed, his unbalanced mind obsessed with the idea of washing for gold, but those same strange, soft hands had always succeeded in preventing this--saving once.

On that occasion he actually succeeded in getting from the bed and standing up. He carefully placed one leaden leg before the other, and was nearly on the threshold of the door when the familiar apparition appeared.

"She doesn't know--I'm wise to all that happened--but I know. She had to do that--poor gal!... I'll jest go and tell her it's all right--not to worry none...."

Two supple arms caught him. He pushed them away, rather irritably.

"Don't b.u.t.t in.... It's her I'm thinkin' of--Angela. She's sure hard and cold and can't see no good in me,... but she's got to be happy--got to be happy.... Maybe she's right. I'm only fit for hosses and wild women...."

He found himself in bed again, and quite unconscious of the fact that he had ever been out of it; but he still continued to ramble on in monotonous and eerie fashion, about Angela, Colorado, fifty thousand pounds, and sundry other things.

Full consciousness came early one morning. He had been lying trying to piece together all the queer things that floated to his brain through the medium of his disarranged optic nerve. He succeeded in arriving at the fact that there was a bed and he was lying on it, and that the ceiling was comprised of rough logs.... Then an arm was placed behind his head and a mug of something hot was placed to his lips. But he didn't drink.

His sight was coming back at tremendous speed. The hazy face before him took definite shape. A pair of intensely blue eyes were fixed on him, and red shapely lips seemed to smile.

"Angela!" he gasped.

She nodded and turned her eyes down.

"Yes, it is I. Don't talk--you are too weak."

"But I don't understand. Why did you come back?"

He saw the mouth quiver.

"I came back because----"

"Go on."

"I came back because I told you a lie.... I didn't realize then what a despicable lie it was--one that reflected upon the character of a good friend, and made me seem like dirt in your eyes.... I wanted my freedom at any price, but that price was too high.... I--I couldn't go and let you think--that."

Her shoulders shook, and he saw that she was trying to conceal her sobs.

"When did you come back?" he queried in a slow voice.

"Two days after I left. I found you gone, but knew you must come back, because some of the gear was here." She hesitated. "Did--did you go after--him?"

He nodded grimly, and she gave a little cry of terror.

"You--you found him?"

He nodded affirmatively.

"And then----?"

"I found him dying from a bad injury."

"Dying----?"

"Yes. He's dead now."

She turned on him with horrified eyes.