The Twins of Suffering Creek Part 56

"Won't you come to home, gal?" the man persisted. "Won't you? I'm so desp'rit lonesome. An' the kids, too. Gee! they're jest yearnin' an'

yearnin' for you--nigh as bad as me."

He took a step towards her with his arms outstretched. All his soul was in his mild eyes. And presently Jessie raised her head again. She stood staring at the wall opposite her. It was as though she dared not face him. Her eyes were burning, but they were less wild, and a sudden hope thrilled the man's heart. He hurried on, fearful lest the old storm should break out again--

"Y'see, Jess, ther' ain't nuthin' to our pore little shack on the 'dumps' without you. Ther' sure ain't. Then ther's my claim. I sold ha'f. An'--an' I got money now--I--"

The woman's eyes turned slowly upon him. They were red with unshed tears. Their expression was curious. There was doubt and shrinking in them. It almost seemed as if she were wondering if all the past days of regret and longing had turned her brain, and she were listening to words conjured by a distorted fancy, some insane delusion. She could not believe. But Scipio continued, and his voice was real enough.

"I--know I ain't much of a feller for the likes of you, Jess," he said earnestly. "I ain't quick. I ain't jest bright. But I do love you, my dear. I love you so I can't think nothin' else. I want you to home, Jess, that bad, I thank G.o.d ev'ry day He give you to me. I want you so bad it don't seem you ever bin away from me. I want you that bad I can't remember the last week or so. You'll come--to home, gal--now?

Think--jest think o' them bits o' twins. You wait till you see 'em laff when they get eyes on you. Say, they're that bonny an' bright.

They're jest like you, wi' their eyes all a-sparklin', an' their cheeks that rosy. Gee! they're jest a-yearnin' an' a-callin' fer their mam--same as me."

The little man had moved another step nearer. His arms were still outstretched, and his quaint face was all aglow with the warmth and love that stirred him. Somewhere in the back of his dull head he knew that he was pleading for something more than his life. He had no subtlety in his manner or his words. It was just his heart talking for him and guiding him.

And in the woman had risen a sudden hope. It was a struggling ray of light in the blackness of her despair. It was a weak struggling flicker--just a flicker. And even as it rose its power was dashed again in the profundity of her suffering. She could not grasp the hand held out--she could not see it. She could not believe the words her ears heard.

"No, no, don't mock at me," she cried, with a sudden return to her old wildness. "It is cruel, cruel! Leave me. For pity's sake go. How can you stand there taunting me so? How can I go with you? How can I face my children now? Do you know what I am? No, no, of course you don't.

You could never understand. You, with your foolish, simple mind. Shall I tell you what I am? Shall I say it? Shall I--"

But the man's hand went up and held her silent.

"You don't need to say nothing, Jess," he said in his mildest tone.

"You don't need to, sure. Whatever you are, you're all the world to me--jest all."

With a sudden cry the woman's head dropped upon her outspread arms, and the merciful tears, so long denied her, gushed forth. Her body heaved, and it seemed to the distraught man that her poor heart must be breaking. He did not know what those tears meant to her. He did not know that the victory of his love was very, very near. Only he saw her bowed in pa.s.sionate distress, and he had no thought of how to comfort her.

He waited, waited. But the flood once broken loose must needs spend itself. Such is the way with women, of whom he had so small an understanding. He turned away to the window. He stared with unseeing eyes at the fair picture of the beautiful valley. The moments pa.s.sed--long, dreary moments rapidly changing to minutes. And then at last the storm began to die down, and he turned again towards her and drew a step nearer.

"Jess--Jess," he murmured.

Then he took another hesitating step.

But his words seemed to have started her tears afresh, and into his eyes came that painful perplexity again.

Again he ventured, and his step this time brought him close to her side.

"Jess, gal--Jess," he pleaded, with infinite tenderness.

And as the woman continued to sob he stole one arm gently about her waist. She made no move. Only her shaking body calmed, and her tears became more silent.

He strove to draw her towards him, but she clung to the bed-rail with almost child-like persistence, as though she dared not permit herself the hope his encircling arms inspired. But she had not rebuffed him, so with some a.s.sertion he thrust his other arm about her, and, exerting force, deliberately turned her towards him.

"Say, don't you to cry, la.s.s," he whispered softly. "Don't you, now.

It jest makes me sore right through. It jest makes me feel all of a choke, an'--an' I want to cry, too. Say, gal, I love you good. I do, Jess--I sure do. Ther' ain't nothin' in the world I wouldn't do to stop them tears. Come to home, gal--come to home."

And as he finished speaking he drew her dark head down to his breast, and laid his thin cheek against her wealth of hair. And, pressing her to the home that was for all time hers, his own eyes filled with tears which slowly rolled down his cheeks and mingled themselves with hers.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

THE REASON WHY

When Scipio turned his back upon the valley it was with the intention of resting his old mule at the place of the friendly farmer whom he had encountered on his first memorable visit to James' secret abode.

From thence, after a night's rest, he would start late next day, and make the creek soon after sundown. For the sake of Jessie he had no desire to make a daylight entry into the camp.

The old mule certainly needed rest. And, besides, it was pleasant to prolong the journey. Moments such as the present were scarce enough in life. And though Jessie was with him for all time now, he greedily hugged to himself these hours alone with her, when there was nothing but the fair blue sky and waving gra.s.s, the hills and valleys, to witness his happiness, none of the harshness of life to obtrude upon his perfect joy; nothing, not even the merest duties of daily life, to mar the delicious companionship which his wife's long-desired presence afforded him. The whole journey was to be a sort of honeymoon, a thousand times sweeter for the misery and unhappiness through which they had both pa.s.sed.

He thought of nothing else. The very existence of James and his gang had pa.s.sed from his recollection. He had no mind for dangers of any sort. He had no mind for anything or anybody but his Jessie, his beautiful Jessie--his wife.

Had he had the least curiosity or interest in other matters, there were many things, strange things, about the recovery of his wife which might have set him wondering. For instance, he might have speculated as to the desertion of the ranch--the absence of dogs, the absence of all those signs which tell of a busy enterprise--things which could not be adequately accounted for by the mere absence of the head of it, even though he were accompanied by his fighting men. He might have glanced about among the barns and corrals, or--he might even have questioned his Jessie.

Had he done either of these things a certain amount of enlightenment would undoubtedly have penetrated to his unsuspicious mind. He must inevitably have detected the hand or hands of his earthly guardian angels in the manner in which his path had been cleared of all obstructions.

Had he been less occupied with his own happiness, with the joy of having Jessie once more beside him, and chanced to look back into the valley as he left it forever, he would certainly have received enlightenment. But he never knew what had been done for him, he never knew the subtle working for his welfare.

Thus it was, all un.o.bserved by him, the moment he was at sufficient distance from the ranch, three hors.e.m.e.n suddenly appeared from amidst the most adjacent point of the forest on the far side of the valley and galloped across to the house. They ran their horses to cover amongst the buildings and dismounted, immediately vanishing into one of the barns.

And as they disappeared a good deal of laughter, a good deal of forceful talk, came from the place which had swallowed them up. Then, after awhile, the three reappeared in the open, and with them came an old ch.o.r.eman, whose joints ached, and whose villainous temper had seriously suffered under the harsh bonds which had held him secure from interference with Scipio for so long.

The men herded him out before them, quite heedless of his bitter vituperation and blasphemy. And when they had driven him forth Sunny Oak pointed out to him the retreating buckboard as it vanished over the far hillside.

"Ther' they go, you miser'ble old son of a moose," he cried with a laugh. "Ther' they go. An' I guess when James gits around ag'in you'll likely pay a mighty fine reck'nin'. An' I'll sure say I won't be a heap sorry neither. You've give me a power o' trouble comin' along out here. I ain't had no sort o' rest fer hours an' hours, an' I hate folks that sets me busy."

"You're a pizenous varmint, sure," added Sandy, feeling that Sunny must not be allowed all the talk. "An' your langwidge is that bad I'll need to git around a Bible-cla.s.s ag'in to disinfect my ears."

"You sure will," agreed Toby, with one of his fatuous grins. "I never see any feller who needed disinfectin' more." Then he turned upon the evil-faced ch.o.r.eman and added his morsel of admonition. "Say, old man, as you hope to git buried yourself when James gits around ag'in, I guess you best go an' dig that miser'ble cur o' yours under, 'fore he gits pollutin' the air o' this yer valley, same as you are at the moment. He's cost me a goodish sc.r.a.p, but I don't grudge it him noways. Sc.r.a.ppin's an elegant pastime, sure--when you come out right end of it."

After that, cowed but furious, the old man was allowed to depart, and the three guardians of Scipio's person deliberately returned to their charge. Their instructions were quite clear, even though they only partially understood the conditions making their work necessary.

Scipio must be safeguarded. They were to form an invisible escort, clearing his road for him and making his journey safe. So they swung into the saddle and rode hot-foot on the trail of their unconscious charge.

For the most part they rode silently. Already the journey had been long and tiresomely uneventful, and Sunny Oak particularly reveled in an impotent peevishness which held him intensely sulky. The widower, too, was feeling anything but amiable. What with his recent futile work on a claim which was the ridicule of the camp, and now the discomfort of a dreary journey, his feelings towards Wild Bill were none too cordial. Perhaps Toby was the most cheerful of the three. The matters of the Trust had been a pleasant break in the daily routine of dispossessing himself of remittances from his friends in the East. And the unusual effort made him feel good.

They had reached the crown of the hill bordering the valley, where the trail debouched upon the prairie beyond, and the effort of easing his horse, as the struggling beast clawed its way up the shelving slope, at last set loose the tide of the loafer's ill-temper. He suddenly turned upon his companions, his angry face dirty and sweating.

"Say," he cried, "of all the blamed fules I'd say we three was the craziest ever pupped."

Sandy turned inquiring, contemptuous eyes in his direction. He always adopted a defensive att.i.tude when Sunny opened out. Toby only grinned and waited for what was to come.

"Meanin'?" inquired Sandy in his coldest manner.

"Meanin'? Gee! it don't need a mule's intellec' to get my meanin',"

said the loafer witheringly. "Wot, in the name o' glory, would I mean but this doggone ride we're takin'? Say, here's us three muttons chasin' glory on the tail o' two soppy lambs that ain't got savvee enough between 'em to guess the north end of a hoss when he's goin'

south. An', wot's more, we're doin' it like a lot o' cluckin' hens chasin' a brood o' fule chicks. I tell you it jest makes me sick. An'

ef I don't git six weeks' rest straight on end after this is thro'

I'll be gettin' plumb 'bug,' or--or the colic, or suthin' ornery b.u.m.