The Rustler of Wind River Part 6

"There are things here that count. I couldn't put a state on the map--an industrial and progressive one, I mean--back home in Washington, or sitting with my feet on the desk in some sleepy consulate. And I'm going to put this state on the map where it belongs. That's the job that's cut out for me here, Miss Landcraft."

He said it without boast, but with such a stubborn note of determination that she felt something lift within her, raising her to the plane of his aspirations. She knew that Alan Macdonald was right about it, although the thing that he would do was still dim in her perception.

"Even then, I don't see what a ranch away off up here from anywhere ever will be worth to you, especially when the post is abandoned. You know the department is going to give it up?"

"And then you--" he began in consternation, checking himself to add, slowly, "no, I didn't know that."

"Perhaps in a year."

"It can't make much difference in the value of land up this valley, though," he mused. "When the railroad comes on through--and that will be as soon as we break the strangle hold of Chadron and men like him--this country will develop overnight. There's petroleum under the land up where I am, lying shallow, too. That will be worth something then."

The music of an old-style dance was being played. Now the piping cowboy voice of some range cavalier rose, calling the figures. The two in the garden path turned with one accord and faced away from the bright windows again.

"They'll be unmasking at midnight?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm afraid I can't go in again, then. The hour of my enchantment is nearly at its end."

"You shouldn't have come," she chided, yet not in severity, rather in subdued admiration for his reckless bravery. "Suppose they--"

"Mac! O Mac!" called a cautious, low voice from a hydrangea bush close at hand.

"Who's there?" demanded Macdonald, springing forward.

"They're onto you, Mac," answered the voice from the shrub, "they're goin' to do you hurt. They're lookin' for you now!"

There was a little rustling in the leaves as the unseen friend moved away. The voice was the voice of Banjo Gibson, but not even the shadow of the messenger had been seen.

"You should have gone before--hurry!" she whispered in alarm.

"Never mind. It was a risk, and I took it, and I'd take it again tomorrow. It gave me these minutes with you, it was worth--"

"You must go! Where's your horse?"

"Down by the river in the willows. I can get to him, all right."

"They may come any minute, they--"

"No, they're dancing yet. I expected they'd find me out; they know me too well. I'll get a start of them, before they even know I'm gone."

"They may be waiting farther on--why don't you go--go! There--listen!

"They're saddling," he whispered, as low sounds of haste came from the barnyard corral.

"Go--quick!" she urged, flinging his plaid across his arm.

"I'm going--in one moment more. Miss Landcraft, I'll ride away from you tonight perhaps never to see you again, and if I speak impetuously before I leave you, forgive me before you hear the words--they'll not hurt you--I don't believe they'll shame you."

"Don't say anything more, Mr. Macdonald--even this delay may cost your life!"

"They'll kill me if they can; they've tried it more than once. I never know when I ride away whether I'll ever return. It isn't a new experience, just a little graver than usual--only that. I came here tonight because I--I came to--in the hope--" he stammered, putting out his hands as if supplicating her to understand, his plaid falling to the ground.

"Go!" she whispered, her hand on his arm in appeal, standing near him, dangerously near.

"I've got a right to love you--I've got a right!" he said, the torrent of his pa.s.sion leaping all curbing obstacles of delicacy, confusion, fear. He flung the words from him in wild vehemence, as if they eased a pang.

"No--no, you have no right! you--"

"I'll leave you in a minute, Frances, without the expectation of ever seeing you again--only with the hope. It's mine to love you, mine to have you if I come through this night. If you're pledged to another man it can't be because you love him, and I'll tear the right away from him--if I come through this night!"

He spoke rapidly, bending so near that his breath moved the hair on her temple. She stood with arms half lifted, her hands clenched, her breath laboring in her bosom. She did not know that love--she had not known that love--could spring up that way, and rage like a flame before a wind.

"If you're pledged to another man, then I'll defy him, man to man--I do defy him, I challenge him!"

As he spoke he stooped, suddenly, like a wind-bent flame, clasped her, kissed her, held her enfolded in his arms one moment against his breast. He released her then, and stepped back, standing tall and silent, as if he waited for her blast of scorn. It did not come. She was standing with hands pressed to her face, as if to cover some shame or sorrow, or ease the throbbing of a soul-deep pain.

The sound of men and horses came from the corral. He stood, waiting for judgment.

"Go now," she said, in a sad, small voice.

"Give me a token to carry away, to tell me I have not broken my golden hope," he said.

"No, I'll give you nothing!" she declared, with the sharpness of one wronged, and helpless of redress. "You have taken too much--you have taken--"

"What?" he asked, as if he exulted in what he heard, his blood singing in his ears.

"Oh, go--go!" she moaned, stripping off one long white glove and throwing it to him.

He caught it, and pressed it to his lips; then s.n.a.t.c.hing off his bonnet, hid it there, and bent among the shrubbery and was gone, as swiftly and silently as a wolf. Frances flew to the house and up the stairs to her room. There she threw up the window and sat panting in it, straining, listening, for sounds from the river road.

From below the voices of the revelers came, and the laughter over the secrets half-guessed before masks were s.n.a.t.c.hed away around the banquet table. There was a dash of galloping hoofs from the corral, the clatter of the closing gate. The sound grew dimmer, was lost, in the sand of the hoof-cut trail.

After a little, a shot! two! a silence; three! and one as if in reply.

Frances slipped to her knees beside the open window, a sob as bitter as the pang of death rising from her breast. She prayed that Alan Macdonald might ride fast, and that the vindictive hands of his enemies might be unsteady that night by the gray riverside.

CHAPTER V

IF HE WAS A GENTLEMAN

"Don't you think we'd better drop it now, Frances, and be good?"

Major King reined his horse near hers as he spoke, and laid his hand on the pommel of her saddle as if he expected to meet other fingers there.

"You puzzle me, Major King," she returned, not willing to understand.