The Gold Girl Part 15

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"Law knows wher it would ended, whut one with another, the Biggses an'

the Strunkses, an' the Rawlins, an' the Craborchards would hev be'n drug into hit, along of the Wattses an' the Scrogginses. So I tuk Watts, an' we went to live with his folks, an' we sent back the mewel with Job Swenky, who they wouldn't n.o.body kill 'cause he wus a daftie.

An' pa brung back the mewel hisself, come alone, an' 'thouten his rifle-gun. He says seem' how Watts hed got me fair an' squr, an' we wus reg'lar married, he reckoned the ol' grudge wus dead, the Strunkses wasn't no count much, nohow, an' we wus welcome to keep the mewel to start on. So Watts's pa killed a shoat, an' brung out a big jug o' corn whisky, an' we-all et an' drunk all we could hold, an'

from then on 'til whut time we come away from ther, they wusn't a man, outside a couple o' revenoos, killed on B'ar Track.

"So yo' see," the woman continued, with a smile. "Hit don't take no time to git ready, onct yo' git in the notion."

"I'm afraid I haven't the same provocation," Patty laughed, as she picked up her pail of eggs and swung into the saddle. "Good-by, and be sure and tell Microby Dandeline to come up and see me. Maybe she'd like to come up on Sunday. I never ride on Sunday."

"She'll come fast enough," promised Ma Watts, and watched the retreating girl until a bend of the creek carried her out of sight.

The long shadows of the mountains were slowly climbing the opposite wall of the valley, as the girl rode leisurely up Monte's Creek. And as she rode, she smiled: "Why is it that every married woman--and especially the older ones, thinks it is her bounden duty to pounce upon and marry off every single one? It is not one bit different out here in the heart of the hills, than it is in Middleton, or New York.

And, it isn't because they're all so happy in their own marriages, either. Look at old Mrs. Stratford, who was bound and determined that I must marry that Archie Smith-Jones; she's been married four times, and divorced three. And Archie never will amount to a row of pins. He looks like a tailor's model, and acts like a Rolls-Royce. And, I don't see any supreme bliss about Mrs. Watts's married existence, although she's perfectly satisfied, I guess, poor thing. I love the subtle finesse with which she tried to arrange a match between me and Mr. Bethune. ''Ef I wus yo' I'd marry up with him'--just like that!

Shades of Mrs. Stratford who spent two whole months trying to get Archie and me into the same canoe! And when she did, the blamed thing tipped over and ruined the only decent summer things I had, all because that fool Archie thought he had to stand up to fend the canoe off the pier.... At least, Mr. Bethune has got some sense, and he is good looking, and he seems to have money, and there is a certain dash and verve about him that one would hardly expect to find here in the hills--and yet--there's something--it isn't his Indian blood, I don't care a cent about that--but sometimes, there's something about him that makes me wonder if he's genuine."

She pa.s.sed through the cottonwood grove and emerged into the open only a few hundred yards below the sheep camp. A moment later she halted abruptly and stared toward the cabin. Two saddled horses stood before the door, reins hanging loosely, and upon the edge of a low cut-bank, just below the shallow waters of the ford, two men were struggling, locked in each other's embrace. Hastily the girl drew back into the cover of the grove and watched with intense interest the two forms that weaved precariously above the deep pool formed by a sudden bend in the creek. The horses she recognized as Vil Holland's buckskin, and the big, blaze-faced bay ridden by Lord Clendenning. In the gathering dusk she could not make out the faces of the two men, but by their heaving, circling, swaying figures she knew that mighty muscles were being strained to their utmost, and that soon one or the other must give in. A dozen questions flashed through the girl's brain. What were they doing there? Why were they fighting at the very door of her cabin? And, above all, what would be the outcome? Would one of them kill the other? Would one of them be left maimed and bleeding for her to bind up and coax back to life?

The men were on the very verge of the cut-bank, now, and it seemed inevitable that both must go crashing into the creek. "Serve 'em right if they would," muttered Patty, "I'd like to give 'em a push." With the words on her lips, she saw a blur of motion, one of the forms leaped lightly back, and the other poised for a second, arms waving wildly in a vain effort to regain his balance, then fell suddenly backward and toppled headlong into the creek. Patty could distinctly hear the mighty splash with which he struck the water, as the other advanced to the edge and peered downward. She knew that this other was Vil Holland, and a moment later he turned away and catching up the reins of the buckskin, swung into the saddle, splashed through the ford, and disappeared into the scrub timber of the opposite side of the valley.

Patty urged her horse forward, at the imminent risk of injury to her pail of eggs. When she had almost reached the cabin, a grotesque, dripping form crawled heavily from the creek bed, gave one hurried glance in her direction, mounted his horse, and disappeared in a thunder of galloping hoofs.

CHAPTER XII

BETHUNE TRIES AGAIN

For several days following the incident of the two struggling hors.e.m.e.n, Patty rode, extending her quest farther and farther into the hills, and thus widening the circle of her exploration. She had overhauled her father's photographic outfit and found it contained complete supplies for the development and printing of his own pictures, and having brought several rolls of films from town, she proceeded to amuse herself by photographing the more striking bits of scenery she encountered upon her daily rides.

It was mid-summer, now, the sun shone hot and bra.s.sy from a cloudless sky, and the buffalo gra.s.s was beginning to exchange its fresh greenness for a shade of dirty tan. Only the delicious coolness of the short nights made bearable the long, hot, monotonous days during which the girl stuck doggedly to her purpose. Upon these rides she met no one. It was as if human beings had entirely forsaken the world and left it to the prairie dogs, the coyotes, and the lazily coiled rattle-snakes that lay basking upon the rocks in the hot glare of the sun. Even the occasional bunches of range cattle did not eye her with their accustomed interest, but lay in straggling groups close beside the cold waters of tiny streams.

And it was upon one of these hot days, long past the noon hour, that Patty dismounted in a narrow valley near the head of a cold mountain stream and, affixing the hobbles to her horse's legs, threw off the saddle and bridle, and spread the sweat-dampened blanket to dry in the sun. Freed of his accouterments, the horse shook himself, shuffled to the stream, and burying his muzzle to the eyes, sucked up great gulps of the cold water, and playfully thrashing his head, sent volleys of silver drops flying from side to side, as he churned the tiny pool into a veritable mud wallow. Tiring of that, he rolled luxuriously, the crisping buffalo gra.s.s scratching the irking saddle-feel from his back and sides: and as the girl spread her luncheon upon a clean white napkin in the shade of a stunted cottonwood, fell to grazing contentedly.

As Patty chipped at the sh.e.l.l of a hard-boiled egg she glanced toward the horse, which had stopped grazing and stood facing down stream with ears nervously alert. A few moments later the soft rattle of bit-chains and the low shuffling of hoofs told her that a rider was approaching at a walk. "Probably my guardian devil, ostensibly paying strict attention to his own business of prospecting, or trying to strike the trail of the horse-thieves, but in reality hot on the trail of little me. I just wish I could find the mine. He'll have to stop and drive his stakes and fix his notice, and if his old buckskin is as good as he thinks he is, he'll just about overtake me at Thompson's.

And then on a fresh horse--I just want one good look into his face when I pa.s.s him, that's all!"

The horseman came suddenly into view a few yards distant, and the girl looked up into the black eyes of Monk Bethune.

"Well, well, my dear Miss Sinclair!" The quarter-breed's tone was one of glad surprise, as he dismounted and advanced, hat in hand. "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. La, la, la, the luck of it! Shall we say, the romance? Hot and saddle-weary from a long ride, to come suddenly upon the fairest of ladies, at luncheon alone in the most charming of little valleys. It is a situation to be dreamed of. And, am I not to be asked to share your repast?"

Patty laughed. The light whimsicality of the man's mood amused her: "Yes, you may consider yourself invited."

"And be a.s.sured that I accept, that is, upon condition that I be allowed to contribute my just share toward the feast." As he talked, Bethune fumbled at his pack-strings, and brought forth a small canvas bag, from which he drew sandwiches of fried trout and bacon thrust between two slabs of doubtful looking baking-powder bread. "No dainty lunch prepared by woman's hand," he apologized, "but we of the hills, no matter how exotic or aesthetic our tastes may be, must of stern necessity descend to the common level of cowboys and offscourings in the matter of our eating. See, beside your own palatable food, this rough fare of mine presents an appearance unappetizing almost to repugnance."

"At least, it looks eminently satisfying," said Patty, eyeing the thick sandwiches.

"Satisfying, I grant you. Satisfying to the beast that is in man, in that it stays the pangs of hunger. So is the blood-dripping carca.s.s of the fresh-killed calf satisfying to the wolf, and carrion satisfying to the buzzard. But, not at all satisfying to the unb.e.s.t.i.a.l ego--to the thing that makes man, man."

"You should have been a poet," smiled the girl. "But come, even poets must eat."

"G.o.d help the man who has no poetry in his soul--no imagination!"

exclaimed Bethune, a trifle sententiously, thought the girl, as she resumed the chipping of her egg. "Imagination," the word hovered elusively in her brain--she had applied that word only recently to someone--oh, yes, the man whose habit it was to search her cabin. She smiled ever so slightly as she glanced sidewise at Bethune who was nibbling at one of his own sandwiches.

"Please try one of mine," she urged, "and there are some pickles, and an olive or two. I have loads of them at home, and really I believe I should like that other sandwich of yours. I haven't tasted fish for ages."

"Take it and welcome," smiled the man. "But do not deny yourself the pleasure of eating all the fish you want. Why, with a bent pin, a bit of thread, and housefly, you can catch yourself a mess of trout any morning without venturing a hundred yards from your own door. Monte's Creek is alive with them, and taken fresh from the water and fried to a crisp in b.u.t.ter, they make a breakfast fit for a king, or in the present instance, I should have said, a queen."

"Tell me," asked Patty, abruptly. "Has Vil Holland imagination?"

"Imagination! My dear lady, Vil Holland is the veriest clod! Too lazy to do the honest work for which he is fitted, he roams the hills under pretense of prospecting."

"But, how does he make a living?"

Bethune shrugged. "Who can tell? I know for a certainty that he has never made a cent out of his alleged prospecting. It is true he rides the round-up for a couple of months in the spring and fall, but four months' work at forty dollars a month will hardly suffice for a man's yearly needs." He unconsciously lowered his voice, and continued: "Several ranchers have complained of losing horses and only a few days ago, up near the line, my good friend Corporal Downey, of the Mounted, told me that a number of American horses, with brands skillfully doctored, had been regularly making their appearance in Canada. It is an ugly suspicion, and I am making no open accusation, but--one may wonder."

The man finished his sandwich, dipped his fingers into the creek, wiped them upon his handkerchief, and proceeded to roll a cigarette. "Speaking of Vil Holland, why did you ask whether he had--imagination?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied the girl, lightly. "I just wondered."

Bethune regarded her steadily. "Has he been,--er, interfering in any way with your attempt to locate your father's strike?"

"Hardly interfering, I should say."

"You believe he still follows you?"

"Yes."

"You do not fear him?"

"No."

"That is because you do not know him! I tell you he is a dangerous man!" Bethune puffed shortly at his cigarette, hurled it from him, and faced the girl with glowing eyes: "Ah, Miss Sinclair, why don't you end this uncertainty? Why do you continue every day to jeopardize your interests--yes, your very life----?"

"Do you mean," interrupted the girl, "why don't I form a partnership with you?"

"A partnership! Ah, no, not a--and, yet--yes, a partnership. A partnership of life, and love, and happiness!" The man moved close, and the black eyes seemed, in the intensity of their gaze to devour her very soul. "There I have said it--the thing I have been wanting to say, yet have feared to say." Patty's lips moved, as if to speak, but the man forestalled the words with a gesture. "Before you answer, let me tell you how, since you first came into the hills, I have lived in the shadow of a mighty fear--I, who have lived my life among men, and have never known the meaning of fear, have been hara.s.sed by a mult.i.tude of fears. From the moment of our first meeting I have loved you. And, by all the saints, I swear you are the only woman I have ever loved! And, yet, I feared to tell you of that love. Twice the words have trembled on my tongue, and remained unspoken, because I feared that you might spurn me. Then in my heart rose another fear, and I cursed myself for a craven. I feared that chance might favor you in locating your father's strike, and then people would say, 'he loves her for her wealth.' I even thought that you, yourself, might doubt--might ask yourself why he waited until I became rich before he told me of his love? But, believe me, my dear lady, for your wealth, I care not the snap of my fingers--so!" He snapped his fingers loudly and continued: "But say the word, and we will go far from the hill country, and leave your father's secret to the guardianship of his beloved mountains. For I am rich. I own mines, mines, mines! What is one mine more or less to me?"

Patty Sinclair felt herself drifting under the spell of his compelling ardor. "Why not?" she asked herself. "Why not marry this man and give up the hopeless struggle?" She thought of her depleted bank account.

At best, she could not hope to hold out much longer. Bethune had taken her hand as he talked, and she had not withdrawn it from his palm.

Swiftly he bent his head and pressed the brown hand pa.s.sionately to his lips. She felt his grip tighten as the burning kisses covered her hand--her wrist. She drew the hand away.

"But, I do not want to leave the hill country," she said, quite calmly. "I shall never leave it until I have vindicated my father's course in the eyes of the people back home--the men who scoffed at him, and called him a ne'er-do-well, and a dreamer--who refused to back his judgment with their miserable dollars--who killed him with their cruelty, and their doubt!"

"I hoped you would say that!" exclaimed Bethune, his eyes alight with approval. "I knew you would say it! The daughter of your father could not do otherwise. I knew him well, and loved him as a son should love.

And I, too, would see his judgment vindicated in the eyes of all the world. Listen, together we will remain, and together we will locate the lost strike, if it takes every cent I own." The man's voice gripped in its intensity, and Patty's eyes returned from the distance where the summer haze bathed far mountain tops in soft purple, and looked into the eyes of velvet black.