The Golden Woman Part 57

She cried out. She knew she cried out, and she knew she cried out in vain. Some one, it seemed to her, was far, far up above her, watching, seeking to aid her, but powerless to respond to her heart-broken cries. Still she called, and she knew she must go on calling, till the dark seas below drowned the voice in her throat.

Now shadows arose about her, mocking, cruel shadows. They were definite figures, but she could not give them definite form in her mind. She reached out toward them, clutching vainly at fluttering shapes, but ever missing them in her headlong career. She sped on, buffeted and hurtling, and torn; on, on, making that hideous journey through s.p.a.ce.

Her despairing thoughts flashed at lightning speed through her whirling brain. Faster they came, faster and faster, till she had no time to recognize, no power to hold them. She could see them, yes, she could literally see them sweep by, vanishing like shadows in that black s.p.a.ce of terror.

Then came a sudden accession of sharp stabbing pain. It seemed to tick through her body as might a clock, and each stab came as with the sway of the pendulum, and with a regularity that was exquisite torture. The stabs of pain came quicker, the pendulum was working faster. Faster and faster it swung, and so the torture was ever increasing. Now the pain was in her head, her eyes, her ears, her brain. The agony was excruciating. Her head was bursting. She cried louder and louder, and, with every cry, the pain increased until she felt she was going mad.

Then suddenly the pendulum stopped swinging and her cries and her agony ceased, and all was still, silent and dark.

It might have been a moment, or it might have been ages. Suddenly this wonderful peace was disturbed. It was as though she had just awakened from a deep refreshing sleep in some strange, unfamiliar world. The darkness remained, but it was the darkness of peace. The beating wind had gone, and she only heard it sighing afar off. She was calling again, but no longer in despair. She was calling to that some one far above her with the certain knowledge that she would be answered. The darkness was pa.s.sing, too. Yes, and she was no longer falling, but soaring up, up, winging her way above, without effort, without pain.

The savage waves were receding, their voices had died to a low murmur, like the voice of a still, summer sea on a low foresh.o.r.e. Now, too, between every cry she waited for that answer which she knew must be forthcoming. It was some man's voice she was awaiting, some man, whose name ever eluded her searching brain. She strained to hear till the pulses of her ear-drums throbbed, for she knew when she heard the voice she would recognize the speaker.

Hark, there it was, far, far away. Yes, she could hear it, but how far she must have fallen. There it was again. It was louder, and--nearer.

Again and again it came. It was quite plain. It was a voice that set her brain and heart afire with longing. It was a voice she loved more than all the world. Hark! What was that it said? Yes, there it was again.

"Pore little gal, pore little Joan."

Now she knew, and a flood of thankfulness welled up in her heart. A great love thrilled through her veins, and tears flooded her eyes, tears of thankfulness and joy. Tears for herself, for him, for all the world. It was Buck's voice full of pity and a tender love.

In a moment she was awake. She knew she was awake to a sort of dazed consciousness, because instantly her brain was flooded with all the horror of memory. Memory of the storm, the fire, of the devastation of her home.

For long minutes she had no understanding of anything else. She was consumed by the tortures of that memory. Yes, it was still storming, she could hear the howling of the wind, the roar of thunder, and the hiss and crackling of fire. Where was she? Ah, she knew. She was outside, with the fire before and behind her. And her aunt was at her side. She reached out a hand to rea.s.sure herself, and touched something soft and warm. But what was that? Surely it was Buck's voice again?

"Thank G.o.d, little gal, I tho't you was sure dead."

In desperate haste she struggled to rise to her feet, but everything seemed to rock and sway under her. And then, as Buck spoke again, she abandoned her efforts.

"Quiet, little gal, lie you still, or I can't hold you. You're dead safe fer the moment. I've got you. We're tryin' to git out o' this h.e.l.l, Caesar an' me. An' Caesar's sure doin' his best. Don't you worrit.

The Padre's behind, an' he's got your auntie safe."

Joan's mind had suddenly become quite clear. There was no longer any doubt in it. Now she understood where she was. Buck had come to save her. She was in his arms, on Caesar's back--and she knew she would be saved.

With an effort she opened her eyes and found herself looking into the dark face of the man she loved, and a great sigh of contentment escaped her. She closed them again, but it was only to open them almost immediately. Again she remembered, and looked about her.

Everywhere was the lurid glow of fire, and she became aware of intense heat. Above her head was the roar of tempest, and the vivid, h.e.l.lish light of the storm. Buck had called it "h.e.l.l."

"The whole world seems to be afire," she said suddenly.

Buck looked down into her pale face.

"Well nigh," he said. Then he added, "Yes, it's afire, sure. It's afire that bad the Almighty alone guesses if we'll git out."

But his doubt inspired no apprehension. Somehow Joan's confidence was the effect of his strong supporting arm.

She stirred again in his arms. But it was very gently.

"Buck," she said, "let me sit up. It will ease you--and help poor Caesar. I'm--I'm not afraid now."

Buck gave a deep-throated laugh. He felt he wanted to laugh, now he was sure that Joan was alive.

"You don't need. Say, you don't weigh nuthin'. An' Caesar, why, Caesar's mighty proud I'm lettin' him carry you."

But the girl had her way, and, in a moment, was sitting up with one arm about the man's broad shoulders. It brought her face near to his, and Buck bent his head toward her, and kissed the wonderful ripe lips so temptingly adjacent.

For a moment Joan abandoned herself to the joy of that kiss. Then the rhythmic sway of Caesar's body under her reminded her that there were other things. She wanted to ask Buck how they had known and come to her help. She wanted to ask a dozen woman's questions. But she refrained. Buck had spoken of "h.e.l.l," and she gazed about her seeking the reason of his doubt.

In a few minutes she was aware of it all. In a few minutes she realized that he had well named the country through which they were riding. In a few minutes she knew that it was a race for life, and that their hope was in the great heart of Caesar.

Far as the eye could see in that ruddy light, tortured and distorted by the flashes of storm above, was an ocean of fire spread out. The crowning billows of smoke, like t.i.tanic foam-crests, rolled away upward and onward before them. They, too, were ruddy-tinted by the reflection from below. They crowded in every direction. They swept along abreast of them, they rose up behind them, and the distance was lost in their choking midst. The scorching air was laden to suffocation by the odors of burning resin. She knew they were on a trail, a narrow, confined trail, which was lined by unburnt woods. And the marvel of it filled her.

"These woods are untouched," she said.

Again Buck laughed. It was a grim laugh which had no mirth, but yet was it dashed by a wonderful recklessness.

"So far," he said. Then he added, with a quick look up at the belching smoke, "If they weren't I don't guess we'd be here now. Say, it's G.o.d's mercy sure this trail heads from the farm southeast. Further on it swings away at a fork. One trail goes due east, an' the other sou'west. One of 'em's sure cut by the fire. An' the other--wal, it's a gamble with luck."

"It's the only way out?" The girl's eyes were wide with her question and the knowledge of the meaning of a reply in the affirmative.

"That's so."

"We're like--rats in a trap."

A sharp oath escaped the man's lips.

"We ain't beat yet," he cried fiercely.

The reply was the heart of the man speaking. Joan understood it. And from it she understood more. She understood the actual peril in the midst of which they were.

There was nothing more to be said. Buck's whole attention was upon the billows of smoke and the lurid reflections thereon. The thunders above them, the blinding lightnings, left him undisturbed. The wind, the smoke and the fire were his only concern now. Already, ahead, he could see in the vague light where the trail gave to the left. Beyond that was the fork.

Joan gave no thought to these things. She had no right understanding of how best they could be served. She was studying the face of the man, the dark, brave face that was now her whole world. She was aware of the horseman behind, with his burden, she was aware of the horrors surrounding them, but the face of the man held her, held her without a qualm of fear--now. If death lay before them she was in his arms.

Buck's thoughts were far enough from death. He had s.n.a.t.c.hed the woman he loved from its very jaws, and he had no idea of yielding. There was no comfort for him in the thought of their dying together. Living, yes. Life was more sweet to him just then than ever it had been before. And he meant that they two should live on, and on.

They pa.s.sed the bend and the forking trail loomed up amidst the shadows. The crisis had come. And as they reached the vital spot Buck took hold of the horse and reined him up. In a moment the Padre was at his side with his inanimate burden.

Joan stared at the still form of her relative while the men talked.

"It's got us beat to the eastward," said Buck, without a moment's hesitation.

"Yes. The fire's right across the trail. It's impa.s.sable."

The Padre's eyes were troubled. The eastward trail led to the open plains.

"We must make the other," Buck said sharply, gathering up his reins.

"Yes. That means----"