The Cattle-Baron's Daughter Part 42

"Put your hand in mine, Larry," she said softly. "I have something to tell you."

The man obeyed her, wondering, while a thrill ran through him as the mittened fingers closed upon his own.

"Hetty," he said, "I have only brought trouble on everyone. I'm not fit to speak to you."

"No," said the girl, with a throb in her voice. "You have only done what very few other men would have dared to do, and many a better girl than I am would be proud to be fond of you. Now listen, Larry. For years you were ever so good to me, and I was too mean and shallow and selfish even to understand what you were giving me. I fancied I had a right to everything you could do. But come nearer, Larry."

She drew him closer to her, until his garments pressed the horse's flank and the blanket skirt she wore, and leaned down still further with her hand upon his shoulder.

"I found out, dear, and now I want you to forgive me and always love me."

The grasp on her hand became compelling, and she moved her foot from the stirrup as the man's arm reached upwards towards her waist. Had she wished she could not have helped herself; as she slipped from the saddle the arm closed round her and it was several seconds before she and Grant stood a pace apart, with tingling blood, looking at one another. There was no sign of Flora Schuyler, they were alone, enfolded in the silence of the bluff.

"It is wonderful," he said. "I can't even talk, Hetty. I want to realize it."

Hetty laughed but there was a note in her voice that set the man's heart beating furiously. "Yes, it is wonderful it should come to me," she said.

"No, you needn't look round, Larry. There is nothing and n.o.body that counts now except you and me. I am just beginning to understand your patience, and how hard I must have been to you."

"I waited a long time," he said. "It was worth while. Even the troubles I felt crushing me seem very little now. If they were only over, and there was nothing to come between you and me!"

"Larry," the girl said very softly, "are you sure they need do that? It has been so horrible lately, and I can't even sleep at night for thinking of the risks that you are taking."

Grant closed one hand, but it was too dark now for Hetty to see his face, and she was glad of it.

"You mean--" he said hoa.r.s.ely, and stopped.

"Just this," her voice almost a whisper. "I am frightened of it all, and when you want me I will come to you. No, wait just a little. I could never marry the man who was fighting against my father and the people I belong to, while, now I know what you are, I could never ask him to go back on what he felt was right; but, Larry, the men you did so much for have turned against you, and the things they are doing are not right, and would never please you. Can't we go away and leave the trouble behind us? n.o.body seems to want us now."

There was a cold dew on the man's forehead the girl could not see. "And your father?" he said.

"I would never help anyone against him, as I told you," said the girl.

"Still, there are times when his bitterness almost frightens me. It is hard to admit it, even to you, but I can't convince myself that he and the others are not mistaken, too. I can't believe any longer that you are wrong, dear. Besides, though he says very little, I feel he wants me to marry Clavering."

"Clavering?" said Larry.

"Yes," said Hetty, with a shiver. "I dislike him bitterly--and I should be safe with you."

Grant held out his hands. "Then, you must come, my dear. One way or other the struggle will soon be over now, and if I have to go out an outcast I can still shelter you."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THERE WAS A NOTE IN HER VOICE THAT SET THE MAN'S HEART BEATING FURIOUSLY.--Page 267.]

The girl drew back a pace. "I can't turn against my own people--but yours have turned on you. That makes it easier. If you will take me, dear, we will go away."

Grant turned from her, and ground his heel into the snow. He had already given up almost everything that made life bright to him, but he had never felt the bitterness he did at that moment, when he realized that another and heavier sacrifice was demanded of him.

"Hetty," he said slowly, "can't you understand? I and the others brought the homesteaders in; this land has fed me and given me all I have, and now I can't go back on it and them. I would not be fit to marry you if I went away."

The words were very simple, but the man's voice betrayed what he felt.

Hetty understood, and the pride she had no lack of came to the rescue.

"Yes," she said with a little sob, "Larry you are right. You will forgive me, dear, for once more tempting you. Perhaps it will all come right by and by. And now I must go."

There was a crackle of brittle twigs, and Grant dimly saw Miss Schuyler riding towards them. Reaching out, he took Hetty's hands and drew her closer.

"There is just one thing you must promise me, my dear," he said. "If your father insists on your listening to Clavering, you will let me know. Then I will come to Cedar for you, and there are still a few Americans who have not lost confidence in their leader and will come with me. Nothing must make you say yes to him."

"No," said Hetty simply. "If I cannot avoid it any other way, I will send for you. I can't wait any longer--and here is Flo."

Larry stooped; but before she laid her foot in the hand he held out for her to mount by, Hetty bent her head swiftly, and kissed him.

"Now," she said softly, "do you think I could listen to Clavering? You will do what you have to, and I will wait for you. It is hard on us both, dear; but I can't help recognizing my duty, too."

Larry lifted her to the saddle, and she vanished into the gloom of the birches before he could speak to Miss Schuyler, who wheeled her horse and followed her. A few minutes more and he was riding towards Fremont as fast as his horse could flounder through the slushy snow, his face grown set and resolute again, for he knew he had difficult work to do.

"I don't quite know what has come over you, Larry," Breckenridge said an hour or two later with a puzzled look at Grant as he lifted his eyes from the writing pad on his knee. "I haven't seen you so obviously contented for months, and yet the work before us may be grim enough. The most unpleasant point about it is that Clavering must have got hold of one of your warrant forms. It was a mistake to trust anybody with one not filled in."

"Well, I feel that way too," Grant confessed, "and at the same time I'm desperately anxious. We are going to have trouble with the boys right along the line, and there is no man living can tell what will happen if any of them go down in an affair with the cavalry."

"It wouldn't be difficult to guess what the consequences would be if they cut the track just before the stock train came through. You are quite sure they have not changed their minds again?"

"Yes," said Larry quietly. "I bluffed it out of Harper. He would have taken a hand in, and only kicked when it came to taking lives. More of the others cleared out over that point, too, and as the rest were half-afraid of some of those who objected giving them away, they changed their plans; but it seems quite certain they mean to pull the rails up at the bend on the down grade by the bunch gra.s.s hollow. It is fortunate, any way. Cheyne and his cavalry will be watching the bridge, you see; but you had better get ready. I'll have the last instructions done directly, and it will be morning before you are through."

Breckenridge poured himself out a big cup of coffee from the jug on the stove, put on a black leather jacket, and went out to the stable. When he came back, Grant handed him a bundle of notes.

"You will see every man gets one and tell him all he wants to know. I dare not put down too much in black and white. They are to be round at the rise behind the depot at six Thursday night."

"You believe they will come?"

"Yes," Grant said firmly. "They are good men, and I'm thankful there are still so many of them, because just now they are all that is standing between this country and anarchy."

Breckenridge smiled a little, but his voice was sympathetic. "Well," he said, "I am glad, on my own account, too. It's nicer to have the chances with you when you have to reckon with men of the kind we are going to meet, but I shall not be sorry when this trouble's through. It is my first attempt at reforming and a little of it goes a long way with me. I don't know that there is a more thankless task than trying to make folks better off than they want, or deserve, to be."

He went out with a packet of messages, and Grant sat still, with care in his face, staring straight in front of him.

XXIV

THE STOCK TRAIN

It was almost unpleasantly hot in the little iron-roofed room at the railroad depot, and the agent, who flung the door open, stood still a minute or two blinking into the darkness. A big lamp that flickered in the wind cast an uncertain gleam upon the slushy whiteness under foot, and the blurred outline of a towering water-tank showed dimly through the sliding snow. He could also just discern the great locomotive waiting on the side-track, and the sibilant hiss of steam that mingled with the moaning of the wind whirling a white haze out of the obscurity. Beyond the track, and showing only now and then, the lights of the wooden town blinked fitfully; on the other hand and behind the depot was an empty waste of snow-sheeted prairie. The temperature had gone up suddenly, but the agent shivered as he felt the raw dampness strike through him, and, closing the door, took off and shook his jacket and sat down by the stove again.

He wore a white shirt of unusually choice linen, with other garments of fashionable city cut, for a station agent is a person of importance in the West, and this one was at least as consequential as most of the rest. He had finished his six o'clock supper at the wooden hotel a little earlier; and as the next train going west would not arrive for two or three hours, he took out a rank cigar, and, placing his feet upon a chair, prepared to doze the time away, though he laid a bundle of accounts upon his knee, in case anyone should come in unexpectedly. This, however, was distinctly improbable on such a night.

The stove flung out a drowsy heat, and it was not long before his eyes grew heavy. He could still hear the wailing of the wind and the swish of the snow that whirled about the lonely building, and listened for a while with tranquil contentment; for the wild weather he was not exposed to enhanced the comfort of the warmth and brightness he enjoyed. Then, the sounds grew less distinct and he heard nothing at all until he straightened himself suddenly in his chair as a cold draught struck him. A few flakes of snow also swept into the room and he saw that the door was open.