The Golden Woman Part 29

"You could sure learn your lessons easier with your menfolk around to help you," he said.

For a second the girl's face dropped. Then she laughed good-humoredly.

"You're smart, Buck," she exclaimed. "But--but you're most exasperating. Still, I'll tell you. The only relative I have in the world, that I know of, is--Aunt Mercy."

"Ah! she's a woman."

"Yes, a woman."

"It's a pity." Suddenly Buck pointed ahead at a great ma.s.s of towering rock above the trees. "There's Devil's Hill!" he exclaimed.

Joan looked up, all eager delight to behold this wonderful hill Buck had brought her out to see. She expected something unusual, for already she had listened to several accounts of this place and the gold "strike" she was supposed to have brought about. Nor was she disappointed now, at least at first. She stared with wondering eyes at the weird, black giant raising its ugly head in a frowning threat above them, and gave a gasp of surprise.

Then in a moment her surprise died out, and into her eyes crept a strange look of repulsion and even fear. She had no words to offer.

She made no move. It was almost as if she sat fascinated like some harmless bird held by the hypnotic stare of a python. So long did she remain silent that Buck at last turned and looked into her face. And something like alarm caught and held him when he beheld her gray look of horror as she faced the gloomy crags mounting up before them.

He too looked out ahead. But his imagination failed him, and his eyes came back to her. The change in her happy, smiling eyes was incredible. Her smile had gone utterly--the bright color of her cheeks. There was no awe in her look, neither curiosity nor admiration. To him it almost seemed that her whole body was thrilled with an utter repugnance and loathing at what she beheld.

"It's--ugly," he hazarded at last.

"It's--it's dreadful." The girl's reply came in a tone there was no mistaking. It was one of concentrated detestation.

"You don't--like it?" Buck felt helpless.

But Joan's next words left him without any doubt.

"I--I think I--hate it," she said harshly.

Buck drew rein on the instant.

"Then we'll get back to home."

But Joan had no such intention.

"No--no!" she exclaimed quickly. "We'll go on. I want to see it. I--I _must_ see it."

Her manner had suddenly become agitated, and Buck was left wondering the more. She was stirred with strange feelings which embodied a dozen different emotions, and it was the sight of that great black crown, like the head of a Gorgon, which had inspired them. Its fascination was one of cruel attraction. Its familiarity suggested a.s.sociation with some part of her life. It seemed as if she belonged to it, or that it belonged to her--that in some curious way it was actually a part of her life. And all the time her detestation, her fear surged through her heart and left her revolting. But she knew she must go on.

Its fascination claimed her and drew her, calling to her with a summons she dared not disobey--had no real desire to disobey.

It was she who took the lead now. She pressed on at a rapid gallop.

Her fair young face was set and cold. She remained silent, and her manner forbade the man's interruption.

But Buck kept pace with her, and a great sympathy held him silent too.

He had no real understanding of her mood, only he knew that, for the moment, his presence had no place in her thought.

So they drew toward the shadow of the hill. Each was lost in disturbed reflections. Joan was waiting, expectant of she knew not what, and the man, filled with puzzlement, knew that the solution lay only with the girl beside him.

It had been his thought to point out the things which his practiced mind suggested as of interest, but now, as he beheld the rapt expression of her face, it all became different. Therefore he checked the eager Caesar and let her lead the way.

Joan had no observation for anything as she rode on right up to the very shadow of the suspended lake. Then, almost mechanically, as though urged by some unseen hand, she drew up sharply. She was no longer looking at the hill, she sat in her saddle limply, and stared vacantly at the rough workings of the miners which had been abandoned for the day.

Still Buck waited in silence.

At last he had his reward. The girl made a movement almost like a shiver. Then she sat up erect. The color came back to her cheeks and she turned to him with eyes in which a ghost of a smile flitted.

"I--I had forgotten," she said half-apologetically. "This is what has brought prosperity to the camp. This is what has saved them from starvation. We--we should owe it grat.i.tude."

"I don't guess the rocks need grat.i.tude," replied Buck quietly.

"No!"

Joan looked up at the black roof above her and shivered.

"It's a weird place, where one might well expect weird happenings."

Buck smiled. He was beginning to obtain some insight into the girl's mood. So used was he to the gloomy hill that its effect was quite lost on him. Now he knew that some superst.i.tious chord had been struck in the girl's feelings, and this strange hill had been the medium of its expression.

He suddenly leant forward. Resting on the horn of his saddle he looked into the fair face he so loved. He had seen that haunted look in her face before. He remembered his first meeting with her at the barn. Its termination had troubled him then. It had troubled him since. He remembered the incident when the gold had been presented to her. Again he had witnessed that hunted, terrified look, that strange overpowering of some painful thought--or memory.

Now he felt that she needed support, and strove with all his power to afford it her.

"Guess ther's nothing weird outside the mind of man," he said.

"Anyway, nothing that needs to scare folk." He turned and surveyed the hill and the wonderful green country surrounding them. "Get a look around," he went on, with a comprehensive gesture. "This rock--it's just rock, natural rock; it's rock you'll find most anywhere. It's got dumped down right here wher' most things are green, an' dandy, an'

beautiful to the eye; so it looks queer, an' sets your thoughts gropin' among the cobwebs of mystery. Ther's sure no life to it but the life of rock. This great overhang has just been cut by washouts of centuries in spring, when the creek's in flood, an' it just happens ther's a hot sulphur lake on top, fed by a spring. I've known it these years an' years. Guess it's sure always been the same. It ain't got enough to it to scare a jack-rabbit."

Joan shook her head. But the man was glad to see the return of her natural expression, and that her smiling eyes were filled with a growing interest He knew that her strange mood was pa.s.sing.

He went on at once in his most deliberate fashion.

"You needn't to shake your head," he said, with a smile of confidence.

"It's jest the same with everything. It sure is. We make life what it is for ourselves. It's the same for everybody, an' each feller gets busy makin' it different. The feller that gets chasin' trouble don't need to run. He only needs to set around and shout. Guess it'll come along if he's yearnin' for it. But it don't come on its own. That's sure as sure. Keep brain an' body busy doin' the things that lie handy, an' when you got to make good among the rocks of life, why, I sure guess you won't find a rock half big enough to stop you."

Watching the deep glowing eyes of the man Joan felt that his confidence was not merely the confidence of brave words. A single glance into his purposeful face left the definite impression that his was a strength that is given to few. It was the strength of a simple, honest mind as yet unfouled by the grosser evils of an effete civilization. His was the force and courage of the wild--the impulse which governs all creatures who live in the midst of Nature's battle-grounds.

"That's--that's because you're so strong you feel that way," she said, making no attempt to disguise the admiration she felt. "The burden of life does not always fall so easily. There are things, too, in spite of what you say, that we cannot control--evils, I mean evils which afflict us."

Buck glanced away down the creek. Then his eyes came back to her, and a new resolve lay behind them.

"I'm no stronger than others," he said. "Guess I haven't ha'f the strength of some. I'd say----" he paused. Then he went on, his eyes gazing fearlessly into hers: "I'd say I haven't ha'f the strength of a gal who gives up the city--a young gal jest beginning a woman's life with 'most everything in her favor--an' comes right out here to farm without a livin' soul to pa.s.s her a hand. I ain't got ha'f the courage of a gal who does that jest because she's chased by thoughts that worry her an' make her days no better than to set her--hatin' them.

Strength? Say, when you ken laff an' all the time feel that life ain't ha'f so pleasant as death, why, I'd sure say ther' ain't no greater strength this side of the check-taker's box."

Joan could hardly believe her ears as she listened. Astonishment, resentment, helplessness, incredulity, all struggled for place. How had this man discovered her secret? How? How? What did he know besides? For a moment her feelings robbed her of speech and betrayed themselves in her expressive face.

But the man's smile, so easy, so disarming, held her. He saw and understood, and he hastened to rea.s.sure her.

"Guess I ain't pryin'," he said bluntly. "These things just come along to my tongue, feeling you were troubled at this--hill. You've told me a heap since you come to the farm. You told me things which I don't guess you wer' yearnin' to tell any one. But you didn't tell 'em with your tongue. An' I don't guess you need to. Set your mind easy. You're scared to death of some trouble which ain't of your seekin'--wal, I don't believe in such trouble."

Then he laughed in so unconcerned, so buoyant and whole-hearted a fashion that Joan's confidence and hope leapt again.