The Golden Woman Part 22

He laughed uproariously at his pleasantry as he leapt into the saddle.

But in a moment his mirth had pa.s.sed, and his whole expression suddenly hardened as he bent down from the saddle.

"But ef Pete comes around you git busy an' boot him right out. Pete's bad--a real bad un. He's wuss'n Beasley. Wal, I won't say he's wuss.

But he's as bad. Git me?"

Joan nodded. She had no alternative. The fellow sickened her. She had been ready to meet him as one of these irresponsible people, ignorant, perhaps dissipated, but at least well-meaning. But here she found the lower, meaner traits of manhood she thought were only to be found amongst the dregs of a city. It was not a pleasant experience, and she was glad to be rid of him.

"I think I understand. Good-bye."

"You're a bright gal, you sure are," the youth vouchsafed cordially.

"I guessed you'd understand. I like gals who understand quick. That's the sort o' gal I'm goin' to hitch up with." He grinned, and crushed his hat well down on his head. "Wal, so long. See you ag'in. Course I can't git around till after I finish on my claim. Guess you won't feel lonesome tho', you got to git your farm fixed right. Wal, so long."

Joan nodded as the man rode off, thankful for the termination of his vicious, whirlwind visit. Utterly disgusted, she turned back to the house to find Mrs. Ransford standing in the doorway.

"What's he want?" the old woman demanded in her most uncompromising manner.

The girl laughed mirthlessly.

"I think he wants a little honesty and kindliness knocked into his very warped nature," she declared, with a sigh.

"Warped? Warped?" The old woman caught at the word, and it seemed to set her groping in search of adequate epithets in which to express her feelings. "I don't know what that means. But he's it anyways--they all are."

And she vanished again into the culinary kingdom over which she presided.

CHAPTER XV

THE CLAIMS OF DUTY

Half an hour later Joan left the house for the barn.

In that brief s.p.a.ce she had lived through one of those swiftly-pa.s.sing epochs in human life when mind, heart and inclination are brought into something approaching actual conflict. But, stern as the fight with weakness had been, she had emerged chastened and victorious.

Realization had come to her--realization of whither her troubles had been leading her. She knew she must not abandon herself to the selfishness which her brief rebellion had prompted. She was young, inexperienced, and of a highly-sensitive temperament, but she was not weak. And it was this fact which urged her now. Metaphorically speaking, she had determined to tackle life with shirt sleeves rolled up.

She knew that duty was not only duty, but something which was to yield her a measure of happiness. She knew, too, that duty was not only to be regarded from a point of view of its benefit to others. There was a duty to oneself--which must not be claimed for the sin of selfishness--just as surely as to others; that in its thoroughness of performance lay the secret of all that was worth having in life, and that the disobedience of the laws of such duty, the neglect of them, was to outrage the canons of all life's ethics, and to bring down upon the head of the offender the inevitable punishment.

She must live her life calmly, honestly, whatever the fate hanging over her. That was the first and most important decision she arrived at. She must not weakly yield to panic inspired by superst.i.tious dread. To do so was, she felt, to undermine her whole moral being. She must ignore this shadow, she must live a life that defied its power.

And when the cloud grew too black, if that method were not sufficient to dispel it, she must appeal for alleviation and support from that Power which would never deny its weak and helpless creatures. She knew that human endurance of suffering was intended to be limited, and that when that limit was honestly reached support was still waiting for the sufferer.

Thus she left the house in a chastened spirit, and once more full of youthful courage. The work, the new life she had chosen for herself, must fill every moment of her waking hours. And somehow she felt that with her stern resolve had come a foretaste of that happiness she demanded of life. Her spirits rose as she neared the barn, and a wild excitement filled her as she contemplated a minute inspection of her belongings and her intention to personally minister to their wants.

Something of the instinct of motherhood stirred in her veins at the thought. These were hers to care for--hers to attend and "do" for. She laughed as she thought of the family awaiting her. What a family. Yes, why not? These creatures were for the guardianship of the human race.

With all their physical might they were helpless dependents on human aid. Yes, they must be thought for and cared for. They were her family. And she laughed again.

The barn was a st.u.r.dy building. Nor was it unpicturesque with its solid, dovetailed lateral logs and heavy thatched roof. She saw that it was built with the same care and finish as the house that was now her home. She could not help wondering at the manner of man who had designed and built it. She saw in it such deliberateness, such skill.

There was nothing here of the slap-dash prairie carpenter she had read of--the man who flung up buildings simply for the needs of the moment.

These were buildings that might last for ages and still retain all their original weather-proof comfort for the creatures they sheltered.

She felt pleased with this man Moreton Kenyon.

She pa.s.sed round the angle of the building to the doorway, and paused for a moment to admire the scheme of the farm. Every building fronted on a largish open s.p.a.ce, which was split by the waters of Yellow Creek, beyond which lay the corrals. Here was forethought. The operative part of the farm was hidden from the house, and every detail of it was adjacent one to another. There was the wagon shed with a wagon in it, and harvesting implements stabled in perfect order. There were the hog-pens, the chicken-houses; the sheds for milch cows. There was the barn and the miniature grain store; then, across the creek, a well, with accompanying drinking-trough, corrals with lowing kine in them; a branding cage. And beyond these she could see a vista of fenced pastures.

As she stood reveling in the survey of her little possession the thought recurred to her that this was hers, all hers. It was the home of her family, and she laughed still more happily as she pa.s.sed into the barn.

Pushing the door open she found herself greeted in the half-light by a chorus of equine whinnying such as she had never before experienced, and the sound thrilled her. There stood the team of great Clydesdale horses, their long, fiddle heads turned round staring at her with softly inquiring eyes. She wanted to cry out in her joy, but, restraining herself, walked up beside the nearest of them and patted its glossy sides. Her touch was a caress which more than gave expression to her delight.

Those were precious moments to Joan. They were so precious, indeed, that she quite forgot the purpose which had brought her there. She forgot that it was hers to tend and feed these great, helpless creatures. It was enough for her to sit on the swinging bail between the stalls, and revel in the gentle nuzzling of two velvety noses. In those first moments her sensations were unforgettable. The joy of it all held her in its thrall, and, for the moment at least, there was nothing else in the world.

The moments pa.s.sed unheeded. Every sound was lost to her. And so it came about that she did not hear the galloping of a horse approaching.

She did not hear it come to a halt near by. She did not even notice the figure that presently filled the doorway. And only did her first realization of the intrusion come with the pleasant sound of a man's deep voice.

"Bob an' Kitty's kind o' friendly, Miss Joan," it said.

The girl turned with a jump and found herself confronted by Buck's smiling face. And oddly enough her first flash of thought was that this man had used her own name, and not her nickname, and she was grateful to him.

Then she saw that he had the fork in his hand with which she had first seen him, and she remembered his overnight promise to do those very things for her which she had set out to do, but, alas! had forgotten all about.

His presence became a reproach at once, and a slight pucker of displeasure drew her even brows together.

"You're very kind," she began, "but----"

Buck's smile broadened.

"'But's' a ter'ble word," he said. "It most always goes ahead of something unpleasant." He quietly laid the fork aside, and, gathering an armful of hay, proceeded to fill Kitty's manger. "Now what you wer' going to say was something like that old--I mean your housekeeper--said, only you wouldn't say it so mean. You jest want to say I'm not to git around doing the ch.o.r.es here for the reason you can't accept favors, an' you don't guess it would be right to offer me pay, same as a 'hired' man."

He hayed Bob's manger, and then loosened both horses' collar chains.

"If you'll sit on the oat-box I'll turn 'em round an' take 'em to water at the trough. That's it."

Joan obeyed him without a word, and the horses were led out. And while they were gone the girl was left to an unpleasant contemplation of the situation. She determined to deal with the matter boldly, however, and began the moment he returned.

"You're quite right, Mr. Buck," she began.

"Buck--jest plain Buck," he interrupted her. "But I hadn't jest finished," he went on deliberately. "I want to show you how you can't do those things the old--your housekeeper was yearnin' to do. Y' see, you can't get a 'hired' man nearer than Leeson b.u.t.te. You can't get him in less'n two weeks. You can't do the ch.o.r.es yourself, an' that old--your housekeeper ain't fit to do anything but make hash. Then you can't let the stock go hungry. Besides all of which you're doing me a real kindness letting me help you out. Ther's no favor to you. It's sure to me, an' these creatures which can't do things for themselves.

So it would be a sound proposition to cut that 'but' right out of our talk an' send word to your lawyer feller in Leeson b.u.t.te for a 'hired'

man. An' when he gits around, why--well, you won't be needin' me."

All the time he was speaking his fork was busy clearing the stalls of their litter, and, at the finish, he leant on the haft of it and quizzically smiled into the girl's beautiful, half-troubled face.

Joan contemplated protesting, but somehow his manner was so friendly, so frank and honest, that she felt it would be ungracious of her.

Finally he won the day, and she broke into a little laugh of yielding.

"You talk too--too well for me," she cried. "I oughtn't to accept,"

she added. "I know I oughtn't, but what am I to do? I can't do--these things." Then she added regretfully: "And I thought it would be all so simple."

Buck saw her disappointment, and it troubled him. He felt in a measure responsible, so he hastened to make amends.