The Fighting Shepherdess Part 31

Was she to become another of those that the first chinook uncovered? One of the already large army that have paid with their lives in just such circ.u.mstances for their loyalty, or their bad judgment? After all she had gone through to reach the goal she had set for herself was she to go out like this--like a common herder who had no thought or ambition beyond the debauch when he drew his wages?

When the dimming light told her the afternoon was waning, and then indications of darkness and another night of torture, despair filled her. Numb, hungry, her vitality at low ebb, she doubted her ability to weather it. Was she being punished, she wondered, for protesting against the life the Fates appeared to have mapped out for her? Was this futile inane end coming to her because since that day when she had stood looking down upon Prouty and vowed to succeed she had fought and struggled and struck back, instead of meekly acknowledging herself crushed and beaten? Had she shaken her fist at the Almighty in so doing, when she should have bowed her head and folded her hands in resignation?

She did not know; in her despair and bewilderment she lost all logic, all perspective; she knew only that in spite of the exhaustion of her body her spirit was still defiant and protesting.

She spread out her hands in supplication, raising her face to the pitiless sky while needlelike particles stung her eyeb.a.l.l.s, and she cried despairingly:

"Oh, Uncle Joe, where are you? Is this the end of me--Katie Prentice? Is this all I was born for--just to live through heartaches and hardships, and then to drop down and die like an animal without knowing happiness or success or anything I've worked and longed and prayed for? Oh, Uncle Joe, where are you?"

The wail that the wind carried over the desert was plaintive, minor, like the cry that had reached him when she sought him in the darkness in that other crisis. She herself thought of it, but then he had responded promptly, and with the sound of his voice there had come a sense of safety and security.

She stood motionless thinking of it, the snow beating into her upturned face, the wind whipping her skirts about her. Then a feeling of exultation came to her--an exultation that was of the mind and spirit, so tangible that it sent over her a glow that was physical, creeping like a slow warm tide from her toes to the tips of her numb fingers.

Even as she marveled it vanished--a curious trick of the imagination she regarded it--but it left her with a feeling of courage; inexplicably it had roused her will to a determination to fight for her life with the last ounce of her strength, and so long as there was a heart beat in her body.

The time came, however, when this moment of transport and resolution seemed so long ago that it was like some misty incident of her childhood. Her body, as when a jaded horse lashed to a gallop reaches a stage where it drops to a walk from which no amount of punishment can rouse it, was refusing to respond to the spur of her will. It became an effort to walk, to swing her arms and stamp her feet, to make any brisk movement that kept the circulation going. She knew what it portended, yet was unable to make greater resistance against the lethargy of cold and exhaustion.

The dog was still with her, close at her heels, and she pulled off her gauntlets clumsily, the act requiring a tremendous effort of will, and tried to warm her fingers in the long hair of its body; but she felt no sensation of heat and she replaced the gloves with the same effort.

The second night was full upon her now--a night so black that she could feel the storm, but not see it. At intervals she experienced a sense of detachment--as if she were a disembodied spirit, lonely, buffeted in a white h.e.l.l of torture.

Usually the faint tinkle of a sheep bell recalled her, but each time the sound had less meaning for her, and the sheep seemed less and less important. She was staggering, her knees had an absurd fashion of giving way beneath her, but she could not prevent them. She was approaching the end of her endurance; she could not resist much longer--this her dull rambling brain told her over and over. And that curious phenomenon--that feeling of confidence and exultation that she had had away back--when was it? Long ago, anyhow--that had meant nothing--nothing--meant nothing. The Supreme Intelligence who had made things didn't know she existed, probably. Her coming was nothing; her going was nothing. And now she was stepping off of something--she was going down hill--down hill--the first gulch she had found in her wanderings. It was full of drifts, likely she'd stumble in one and lie there--it was tiresome to keep going, and it made no difference to anybody. Then she stumbled and fell to the bottom, p.r.o.ne, her arms outstretched, the briars of a wild-rose bush tearing her cheek as she lay face downward in the center of it. But she did not know it--she was comfortable, very comfortable, and she could as well lie there a little while--a little while--

Then somewhere a querulous voice was saying:

"I told you the picture would be overexposed when you were takin' it.

You'll never listen to me."

A deeper voice answered:

"The light was stronger than I thought; but, anyway, it's a humdinger of a negative." Then, sharply, "Sh-ss-sh! What was that, Honey?"

A silence fell instantly.

"Honey!" Kate had a notion that she smiled, though her white face did not alter its expression. Her tongue moved thickly, "I like that name, Hughie."

Her collie whimpered and scratched again at the door of the wagon. The traveling photographer pushed it open and the animal sprang inside, leaping from one to the other in his grat.i.tude.

"It's a sheep dog!" the man cried in consternation. "There's a herder lost somewhere."

"Can we do anything--such a night?" the old woman asked doubtfully. "Can anyone be alive in it?"

"Light the lantern--quick! Maybe I can track the dog back before the snow fills them. He might be down within a stone's throw of the wagon."

s.n.a.t.c.hing the lantern from her hand he admonished his wife as he stepped out into the wilderness:

"You-all keep hollerin' so I can hear you. I kin git lost mighty easy."

The light became a blur almost instantly, but he was not fifty feet from the wagon when he shouted:

"I got him!" Then--his voice shrilled in astonishment--"Sufferin'

Saints! It's a woman!"

CHAPTER XV

ONE MORE WHIRL

Mr. Toomey folded his comfortable bathrobe over his new pajamas and tied the silken cord and ta.s.sel, remarking casually:

"I think we'll have breakfast here this morning."

The flowing sleeve of Mrs. Toomey's pink silk negligee fell away from her bare arm as she stood arranging her hair before the wide-topped dresser of Circa.s.sian walnut that looked so well against a background of pale gray wall paper with a delicate pink border.

"They charge extra," she reminded him.

Toomey was already at the telephone.

"Whole ones? Certainly--and Floridas--be particular. Eggs--soft to medium. Toast for two, without b.u.t.ter. And coffee? Of course, coffee.

Send a paper with it, will you?"

As he hung up the receiver, "This is our last breakfast on earth, Old Dear--we're going home to-morrow."

Mr. Toomey repaired to the adjoining bathroom with its immaculate porcelain and tiling, where he inspected his chin critically in the shaving mirror and commented upon the rapid growth of his beard, which he declared became tropical in a temperate climate.

"Just to be warm and not have to carry ashes--it's heavenly!"

ecstatically sighed Mrs. Toomey.

"Forget it!" laconically. "What makes 'em so slow with that order?" Mr.

Toomey lighted a gold-tipped cigarette and paced the floor impatiently.

Mrs. Toomey could not entirely rid herself of the notion that she was dreaming. A lace petticoat hanging over the back of a chair and a brocaded pink corset over another contributed to the illusion. She could not yet believe they were hers, any more than was the twenty-dollar creation in the hat box on the shelf in the closet.

During their week's stay in Chicago Mrs. Toomey had gone about mostly in a state which resembled the delightful languor of hasheesh, untroubled, irresponsible, save when something reminded her that after Chicago--the cataclysm. Yet she had not yielded easily to Toomey's importunities. It had required all his powers of persuasion to overcome her scruples, her ingrained thrift and natural prudence.

"We need the change; we've lived too long in a high alt.i.tude, and we're nervous wrecks, both of us," he had argued. "We should get in touch with things and the right kind of people. A trip like this is an investment--that's the way you want to look at it. If you want to win anything in this world you've got to take chances. It's the plungers, not the plodders, who make big winnings. I gotta hunch that I'm going to get in touch with somebody that'll take an interest in me."

Left to herself, Mrs. Toomey would have paid something on their most urgent debts and bought prudently, but she told herself that j.a.p was as likely to be right as she was, and the argument that he might meet some one who would be of benefit to him was convincing; so finally she had consented. The sense of unreality and wonder which Mrs. Toomey experienced when she saw her trunk going was surpa.s.sed only by the astonishment of the neighbors, who all but broke the gla.s.s in their various windows as they pressed against it to convince themselves that the sight was not an optical illusion.

The Toomeys had traveled in a stateroom, over Mrs. Toomey's feeble protest, and the best room with bath in one of the best hotels in Chicago was not too good for Mr. Toomey. They had thought to stay three weeks, with reasonable economy, and return with a modest bank balance, but the familiar environment was too much for Toomey, who dropped back into his old way of living as though he never had been out of it, while the new clothes and the brightness of the atmosphere of prosperity after the years of anxiety and poverty drugged Mrs. Toomey's conscience and caution into a profound slumber--the latter to be awakened only when, counting the banknotes in her husband's wallet, she was startled to discover that they had little more than enough to pay their hotel bill and return to Prouty in comfort. If either of them remembered the source from which their present luxurious enjoyment came, neither mentioned it.

The breakfast and service this morning were perfect and Mrs. Toomey sighed contentedly as she crumpled her napkin and reached for the paper.

"There's been a terrible blizzard west of the Mississippi," she murmured from the depths of the _Journal_.

"I'm glad we've missed a little misery," Toomey replied carelessly.

"It'll mean late trains and all the rest of it. We'd better stay over until they're running again on schedule."

Mrs. Toomey ignored, if she heard, the suggestion, and continued: