The Golden Woman Part 55

Buck watched him turn away to continue his survey of the horses.

"So have you--I s'pose," the older man went on a moment later, indicating the horses.

"Yep. Guess they'll need to do a long journey soon. Mebbe--to-night."

"Caesar?" said the Padre.

"Both," returned Buck, with an emphasis, the meaning of which could not well be missed.

The Padre's eyes were smiling. He glanced round the tumbled-down old barn. They had contrived to house their horses very comfortably, and Buck kept them wonderfully cared for. These things appealed to him in a way that made him regret many things.

"Who's riding--my plug?" the Padre asked deliberately.

Buck shrugged.

"Why ask?" he said doggedly. "Who generally does? I don't seem to guess we need beat around," he went on impatiently. "That ain't bin our way, Padre. Guess those hosses are ready for us. They'll be ready night an' day--till the time comes. Then--wal, we're both goin' to use 'em."

The younger man's impatience had no disturbing effect upon the other.

But his smile deepened to a great look of affection.

"Still chewin' that bone?" he said. Then he shook his head. "What's the use? We're just men, you and I; we got our own way of seeing things. Twenty years ago maybe I'd have seen things your way. Twenty years hence no doubt you'll see things mine----"

"Jest so," Buck broke in, his eyes lighting, and a strong note suddenly adding force to his interruption. "But I'm not waitin' twenty years so's to see things diff'rent."

"That's what I should have said--twenty years ago."

Buck's face suddenly flushed, and his dark brows drew together as he listened to the calm words of his friend. In a moment his answer was pouring from his lips in a hot tide which swept his hearer along and made him rejoice at the bond which existed between them. Nor, in those moments, could he help feeling glad for that day when he had found the hungry wayfarer at the trail-side.

"Ther's more than twenty years between us, sure," Buck cried with intense feeling. "Nuthin' can alter that, an' ther's sure nuthin' can make us see out o' the same eyes, nor feel with the same feelin's.

Ther's nuthin' can make things seem the same to us. I know that, an'

it ain't no use you tellin' me. Guess we're made diff'rent that way--an' I allow it's as well. If we weren't, wal, I guess neither of us would have things right. See here, Padre, you give most everything to me you could, ever since you brought me along to the farm. That's because it's your way to give. I hadn't nuthin' to give. I haven't nuthin' to give now. I can't even give way. Guess you can, though, because it's your nature, and because I'm askin' it. Padre, I'm goin'

to act mean. I'm goin' to act so mean it'll hurt you. But it won't hurt you more than it'll hurt me. Mebbe it won't jest hurt you so much. But I'm goin' to act that way--because it's my way--when I'm set up agin it. You're settin' me up agin it now."

He paused, vainly watching the other's steady eyes for a sign.

"Go on." The Padre's smile was undiminished.

Buck made an impatient movement, and pointed at the horses.

"See them? Ther' they stand," he cried. "Ther' they'll sure stand till we both set out for the long trail. I got it all fixed. I got more than that fixed. See these guns?" He tapped one of the guns at his waist. "They're loaded plumb up. The belt's full of shots. I got two repeatin' rifles stowed away, an' their magazines are loaded plumb up, too. Wal--unless you say right here you're goin' to hit the trail with me, when--things get busy; unless you tell me right out you're goin'

to let me square off jest a bit of the score you got chalked up agin me all these years by lettin' me help you out in this racket, then I'm goin' to set right out ther' by the old stockade, and when Bob Richards gets around, he an' as many of his dogone dep'ties as I can pull down are goin' to get their med'cine. They'll need to take me with you, Padre. Guess I'm sharin' that 'chair' with you, if they don't hand it me before I get ther'. What I'm sayin' goes, every word of it. This thing goes, jest as sure as I'll blow Bob Richards to h.e.l.l before he lays hand on you."

The younger man's eyes shone with a pa.s.sionate determination. There was no mistaking it. His was a fanatical loyalty that was almost staggering.

The Padre drew a sharp breath. He had not studied this youngster for all those years without understanding something of the recklessness he was capable of. Buck's lips were tightly compressed, his thin nostrils dilating with the intense feeling stirring him. His cheeks were pale, and his dark eyes flashed their burning light in the dim glow of the lantern. He stood with hands gripping, and the muscles of his bare arms writhed beneath the skin with the force with which they clenched.

He was strung to an emotion such as the Padre had never before seen in him, and it left the older man wavering.

He glanced away.

"Aren't we worrying this thing on the crossways?" he said, endeavoring to disguise his real feelings.

But Buck would have none of it. He was in no mood for evasion. In no mood for anything but the straightest of straight talk.

"Ther's no crosswise to me," he cried bluntly, with a heat that might almost have been taken for anger. Then, in a moment, his manner changed. His tone softened, and the drawn brows smoothed. "Say, you bin better'n a father to me. You sure have. Can I stand around an' see you pa.s.sed over to a low-down sort o' law that condemns innocent folks? No, Padre, not--not even for Joan's sake. I jest love that little Joan, Padre. I love her so desprit bad I'd do most anything for her sake. You reckon this thing needs doin' for her." He shook his head. "It don't. An' if it did, an' she jest wanted it done--which she don't--I'd b.u.t.t in to stop it. Say, I love her that way I want to fix her the happiest gal in this country--in the world. But if seein' you go to the law without raisin' a hand to stop it was to make her happy, guess her chances that way 'ud be so small you couldn't never find 'em. If my life figures in her happiness, an' I'm savin' that life while you take your chance of penitentiary an'--the 'chair,' wal, I guess she'll go miserable fer jest as many years as she goes on livin'."

The Padre turned away. It was impossible for him to longer face those earnest young eyes pleading to be allowed to give their life for his liberty. The reckless prodigality of the youngster's heart filled him with an emotion that would not be denied. He moved over to where Caesar stood, and smoothed the great creature's silky quarters with a shaking hand. Buck's storming he could have withstood, but not--this.

The other followed his every movement, as a beggar watches for the glance of sympathy. And as the moments pa.s.sed, and the Padre remained silent, his voice, keyed sharply, further urged him.

"Wal?"

But the other was thinking, thinking rapidly of all those things which his conscience, and long years of weary hiding prompted. He was trying to adapt his focus anew. His duty had seemed so plain to him. Then, too, his inclination had been at work. His intention had not seemed a great sacrifice to him. He was weary of it all--these years of avoiding his fellows. These years during which his mind had been thrown back upon the thought of whither all his youthful, headlong follies and--cowardice had driven him. Strong man as he was, something of his strength had been undermined by the weary draining of those years. He no longer had that desire to escape, which, in youth, had urged him. He was almost anxious to face his accusers. And with that thought he knew that he was getting old. Yes, he was getting old--and Buck--Buck was almost his son. He could not see the boy's young life thrown away for him, a life so full of promise, so full of quiet happiness. He knew that that would happen if he persisted. He knew that every word of Buck's promise would be carried out to the letter.

That was his way. There was no alternative left now but for him to give way. So he turned back and held out his hand.

"What you say--goes," he said huskily. "I--I hope what we're doing is right."

Buck caught the strong hand in his, and the other winced under his grip.

"Right?" he cried, his eyes shining with a great happiness. "Right?

You'll save that old woman the worst crime on earth. You're savin' the law from a crime which it's no right to commit. You're handin' little Joan a happiness you can't even guess at in keepin' your liberty--an'

me, wal, you're handin' me back my life. Say, I ain't goin' to thank you, Padre. I don't guess I know how. That ain't our way." He laughed happily. "Guess the score you got agin me is still mountin' right up.

I don't never seem to git it squared. Wal, we'll let it go. Maybe it's almost a pity Bob Richards won't never have the chance of thanking you for--savin' his life, too."

The delight in his manner, his shining joy were almost sufficient recompense to the Padre. He had given way to this youngster as he always gave way. It had been so from the first. Yes, it was always so, and--he was glad.

Buck turned toward the door, and, as he did so, his arm affectionately linked into that of his friend.

"We'll need that supper, Padre," he said, more soberly. "There's a long night, and it ain't easy to guess what may happen before daylight. Come right along."

They pa.s.sed the doorway, but proceeded no farther. Buck held up his hand, and they stood listening.

"Wait! Hark!" he cried, and both turned their eyes toward the westward hills.

As they stood, a low, faint growl of thunder murmured down the distant hillsides, and died away in the long-drawn sigh of a rising wind. The wind swept on, and the rustling trees and suddenly creaking branches of the forest answered that sharp, keen breath.

"It's coming--from the northwest," said the Padre, as though the direction were significant.

"Yes." Buck nodded with understanding. "That's wher' the other come from."

They stood for some moments waiting for a further sign. But nothing came. The night was pitch black. There was no break anywhere in the sky. The lamplight in the house stared out sharp and clear, but the house itself, as with the barns and other outbuildings, the stockade, even the line of the tree tops where they met the sky, was quite lost in the inky night.

"It'll come quick," said the Padre.

"Sure."

They moved on to the house, and in a few minutes were sitting down to one of those silent meals which was so much a part of their habit. Yet each man was alert. Each man was thinking of those things which they knew to be threatening. Each man was ready for what might be forthcoming. Be it tempest or disaster, be it battle or death, each was ready to play his part, each was ready to accept the verdict as it might be given.

Buck was the first to push back from the table. He rose from his seat and lit his pipe. Then, as the pungent fumes lolled heavily on the superheated air, he pa.s.sed over to the open window and took his seat upon the sill.