The Twins of Suffering Creek Part 23

"That's him--that feller Sim Longley."

The storekeeper stared.

"You sure?"

"Sure? Gee! I was after him fer nigh three--Say," he broke off--it was not his way to indulge in reminiscence--"I guess he's workin' with James." Then he laughed. "Gee! I allow he was rigged elegant--most like some Bible-smashin' sky-pilot."

Minky was still laboring hard to understand.

"But all that yarn of the gold-stage?" he said sharply.

"That?" Bill at once became serious. "Wal, that's pretty near right.

You ain't yearnin' fer that gang to come snoopin' around Suffering Creek. So I'm guessin' we'll hev to pa.s.s a gold-stage out o' her some time."

"You're mad," cried Minky in consternation.

"That's as may be," retorted Bill, quite unruffled. "Anyways, I guess I spent a hundred dollars in a mighty good deal this day--if it was rotten bad poker."

And he turned away to talk to Slade of Kentucky, who entered the store at that moment with his friend O'Brien.

CHAPTER XII

THE WOMAN

The woman turned from the window at the sound of footsteps somewhere behind her. That was her way now. She started at each fresh sound that suggested anyone approaching. Her nerves were on edge for some reason she could never have put into words. She did not fear, yet a curious nervousness was hers which made her listen acutely at every footstep, and breathe her relief if the sound died away without further intrusion upon her privacy.

Presently she turned back to the window with just such relief. The footstep had pa.s.sed. She drew her feet up into the ample seat of the rocking-chair, and, with her elbow resting upon its arm, heavily pressed her chin into the palm of her hand, and again stared at the rampart of mountains beyond.

Nor had all the beauties spread out before her yearning gaze the least appeal for her. How should they? Her thoughts were roaming in a world of her own, and her eyes were occupied in gazing upon her woman's pictures as she saw them in her mind. The wonders of that scene of natural splendor laid out before her had no power to penetrate the armor of her preoccupation. All her mind and heart were stirred and torn by emotions such as only a woman can understand, only a woman can feel. The ancient battle of t.i.tanic forces, which had brought into existence that world of stupendous might upon which her unseeing eyes gazed, was as nothing, it seemed, to the pa.s.sionate struggle going on in her torn heart. To her there was nothing beyond her own regretful misery, her own dread of the future, her pa.s.sionate revulsion at thoughts of the past.

The truth was, she had not yet found the happiness she had promised herself, that had been promised to her. She had left behind her all that life which, when it had been hers, she had hated. Her pa.s.sionate nature had drawn her whither its stormy waves listed. And now that the tempest was pa.s.sed, and the driving forces had ceased to urge, leaving her in a rock-bound pool of reflection, she saw the enormity of the step she had taken, she realized the strength of Nature's tendrils which still bound her no less surely.

The mild face of Scipio haunted her. She saw in her remorseful fancy his wondering blue eyes filled with the stricken look of a man powerless to resent, powerless to resist. She read into her thought the feelings of his simple heart which she had so wantonly crushed.

For she knew his love as only a woman can. She had probed its depth and found it fathomless--fathomless in its devotion to herself. And now she had thrown him and his love, the great legitimate love of the father of her children, headlong out of her life.

A dozen times she bolstered her actions with the a.s.surance that she did not want his love, that he was not the man she had ever cared for seriously, could ever care for. She told herself that the insignificance of his character, his personality, were beneath contempt. She desired a man of strength for her partner, a man who could make himself of some account in the world which was theirs.

No, she did not want Scipio. He was useless in the scheme of life, and she did not wish to have to "mother" her husband. Far rather would she be the slave of a man whose ruthless domination extended even to herself. And yet Scipio's mild eyes haunted her, and stirred something in her heart that maddened her, and robbed her of all satisfaction in the step she had taken.

But this was only a small part of the cause of her present mood. She had not at first had the vaguest understanding of the bonds which really fettered her, holding her fast to the life that had been hers for so long. Now she knew. And the knowledge brought with it its bitter cost. Some forewarning had been hers when she appealed to her lover for the possession of her children. But although her mother's instinct had been stirred to alarm at parting, she had not, at that time, experienced the real horror of what she was doing in abandoning her children.

She was inconsolable now. With all her mind and heart she was crying out for the warm, moist pressure of infant lips. Her whole body yearned for those who were flesh of her flesh, for the gentle beating hearts to which her body had given life. They were hers--hers, and of her own action she had put them out of her life. They were hers, and she was maddened at the thought that she had left them to another.

They were hers, and--yes, she must have them. Whatever happened, they must be restored to her. Life would be intolerable without them.

She was in a wholly unreasoning state of mind. All the mother in her was uppermost, craving, yearning, panting for her own. For the time, at least, all else was lost in an overwhelming regret, and such a power of love for her offspring, that she had no room for the man who had brought about the separation.

She was a selfish woman, and had always craved for the best that life could give her, but now that her mother-love was truly roused her selfishness knew no bounds. She had no thought for anybody, no consideration. She could have none until her desire was satisfied.

Her tortured heart grew angry against Scipio. She was driven to fury against James. What mattered it that her lover had so far fulfilled all his other promises to her, if he did not procure the children and return them to her arms? What mattered it that she was surrounded with luxury uncommon on the prairie, a luxury she had not known for so many years?

She had her own rooms, where no one intruded without her consent. The s.p.a.cious house had been ransacked to make them all that she could desire. All the outlaw's a.s.sociates were herded into the background, lest their presence should offend her. Even James himself had refrained from forcing his attentions upon her, lest, in the first rush of feeling at her breaking with the old life, they should be unwelcome. His patience and restraint were wonderful in a man of his peculiar savagery. And surely it pointed his love for her. Had it been simply the momentary pa.s.sion of an untamed nature, he would have waited for nothing, when once she had become his possession.

It was a curious anachronism that she should be the mistress of the situation with such a man as James. Yet so far she was mistress of the situation. The question was, how long would she remain so? It is possible that she had no understanding of this at first. It is possible that she would have resented such a question, had it occurred to her when she first consented to break away from her old life.

But now it was different. Now that she began to understand all she had flung away for this man, when the mother in her was at last fully aroused, and all her wits were driven headlong to discover a way by which to satisfy her all-consuming desire for her children, now the native cunning of the woman a.s.serted itself. She saw in one revealing flash her position, she saw where lay her power at the moment, and she clung to it desperately, determined to play the man while she could to gain her ends.

Thus it was she was nervous, apprehensive, every time she thought it likely that her lover was about to visit her. She dreaded what might transpire. She dreaded lest her power should be weakened before she had accomplished her end. It was difficult; it was nerve-racking. She must keep his love at fever-heat. It was her one chance.

Again she started. It was the sound of a fresh footstep beyond the door. She glanced at the door with half-startled eyes and sat listening. Then her lips closed decidedly and a look of purpose crept into her eyes. A moment later she stood up. She was pale, but full of purpose.

"Is that you, Jim?" she called.

"Sure," came the ready response.

The next instant the door was flung open and the man came in.

His bronzed face was smiling, and the savage in him was hidden deep down out of sight. His handsome face was good to look upon, and as the woman's eyes surveyed his carefully clad slim figure she felt a thrill of triumph at the thought that he was hers at the raising of her finger.

But she faced him without any responsive smile. She had summoned him with a very definite purpose in her mind, and no display of anything that could be interpreted into weakness must be made.

"I want to talk to you," she said, pointing at the rocking-chair she had just vacated.

James glanced at the chair. Then his eyes turned back to her with a question in them. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and flung himself into the seat, and stretched out his long legs luxuriously.

Apparently Jessie had not noticed the shrug. It would have been better had she done so. She might then have understood more fully the man she was dealing with. However, she turned to the window and spoke with her back to him.

"It's about--things," she said a little lamely.

The man's smile was something ironical, as his eyes greedily devoured the beauty of her figure.

"I'm glad," he said in a non-committing way. Then, as no reply was immediately forthcoming, he added, "Get going."

But Jessie made no answer. She was thinking hard, and somehow her thoughts had an uneasy confusion in them. She was trying hard to find the best way to begin that which she had to say, but every opening seemed inadequate. She must not appeal, she must not dictate. She must adopt some middle course. These things she felt instinctively.

The man shifted his position and glanced round the room.

"Kind of snug here," he said pleasantly, running his eyes appreciatively over the simple decorations, the cheap bric-a-brac which lined the walls and, in a world where all decoration was chiefly conspicuous by its absence, gave to the place a suggestion of richness. The red pine walls looked warm, and the carpeted floor was so unusual as to give one a feeling of extraordinary refinement. Then, too, the chairs, scattered about, spoke of a strain after civilized luxury. The whole ranch-house had been turned inside out to make Jessie's quarters all she could desire them.

"Yes," he muttered, "it's sure snug." Then his eyes came back to the woman. "Maybe there's something I've forgotten. Guess you've just got to fix a name to it."

Jessie turned instantly. Her beautiful eyes were shining with a sudden hope, but her face was pale with a hardly controlled emotion.

"That's easy," she said. "I want my children. I want little Vada. I--I must have her. You promised I should. If you hadn't, I should never have left. I must have her." She spoke breathlessly, and broke off with a sort of nervous jolt.