The Price of the Prairie Part 25

It took the edge off the embarra.s.sment, and O'mie, who had sidled over into Marjie's neighborhood, said in a low voice:

"Tillhurst is a consummit liar, beautiful to look upon. That girl tagged Phil. He couldn't get away an' be a gintleman."

I did not know then what he was saying, but I saw her face bloom again.

Later I had her alone a moment. We were eating water melon on the back porch, half in the shadow, which we didn't mind, of course.

"May I take you home, Marjie, and tell you how sweet that letter was?" I asked.

"Phil, I didn't know you were coming, and Richard Tillhurst asked me just as you came in. I saw Amos Judson coming my way, so I made for the nearest port."

"And you did right, dearie," I said very softly; "but, Marjie, don't forget you are my girl, my only girl, and I'll tell you all about this Topeka business to-morrow night. No, I'll write you a letter to-night when I go home. You'll find it at 'Rockport' to-morrow."

She smiled up at me brightly, saying contentedly, "Oh, you are always all right, Phil."

As we trailed into the kitchen from the water melon feast, Lettie Conlow's dress caught on a nail in the floor. I stooped to loose it, and rasped my hand against a brier clinging to the floppy ruffle (Lettie was much given to floppy things in dress), and behold, a sprig of little red blossoms was sticking to the p.r.i.c.kles. These blooms were the kind Marjie had sent me in her letter to Topeka. They grew only in the crevices about the cliff. It flashed into my mind instantly that it was Lettie who had pa.s.sed me down on that ledge.

"I suppose I'll find her under my plate some morning when I go to breakfast," I said to myself. "She is a trailer of the Plains. Why should she be forever haunting my way, though?"

Fate was against me that night. Judson was called from the party to open the store. A messenger from Red Range had come posthaste for some merchandise. We did not know until the next day that it was the burial clothes for the beautiful young girl whose grave held Dave Mead's heart.

Before Judson left, he came to me with Lettie.

"Will you take this young lady home for me? I must go to the store at once. Business before pleasure with me. That's it, business first. Very sorry, Miss Lettie; Phil will see you safely home."

I was in for the obligation. The Conlows lived four blocks beyond the shop down toward the creek. The way was shadowy, and Lettie clung to my arm. I was tired from my stage ride of a day and a half, and I had not slept well for two nights. I distrusted Lettie, for I knew her disposition as I knew her father's before her.

"Phil, why do you hate me?" she asked at the gate.

"I don't hate you, Lettie. You use an ugly word when you say 'hate,'" I replied.

"There's one person I do hate," she said bitterly.

"Has he given you cause?"

"It's not a man; it's a woman. It's Marjie Whately," she burst out. "I hate her."

"Well, Lettie, I'm sorry, for I don't believe Marjie deserves your hate."

"Of course, you'd say so. But never mind. Marjie's not going to have my hate alone. You'll feel like I do yet, when her mother forces her away from you. Marjie's just a putty ball in her mother's hands, and her mother is crazy about Amos Judson. Oh, I've said too much," she exclaimed.

"You have, Lettie; but stop saying any more." I spoke sternly.

"Good-night."

She did not return my greeting, and I heard her slam the door behind her.

That night, late as it was, I wrote a long letter to Marjie. I had no pangs of jealousy, and I felt that she knew me too well to doubt my faith, and yet I wanted just once more to a.s.sure her. When I had finished, I went out softly and took my way down to "Rockport." It was one of those glorious midsummer moonlit nights that have in their subdued splendor something more regal than the most gorgeous midday. I was thankful afterwards for the perfect beauty of that peaceful night, with never a hint of the encroaching shadows, the deep gloom of sorrow creeping toward me and my loved one. The town was sleeping quietly. The Neosho was "chattering over stony ways," and whispering its midnight melody. The wooded bottoms were black and glistening, and all the prairies were a gleaming, silvery sea of glory. The peace of G.o.d was on the world, the broad benediction of serenity and love. Oh, many a picture have I in my memory's treasure house, that imperishable art gallery of the soul. And among them all, this one last happy night with its setting of Nature's grand handiwork stands clear evermore.

I had put my letter safe in its place, deep where n.o.body but Marjie would find it. I knew that if even the slightest doubt troubled her this letter would lift it clean away. I told her of Rachel Melrose and of my fear of her designing nature, a fear that grew, as I reflected on her acts and words. I did not believe the young lady cared for me. It was a selfish wish to take what belonged to somebody else. I a.s.sured my little girl that only as a gentleman should be courteous, had been my courtesy to Rachel. And then for the first time, I told Marjie of her father's dying message. I had wanted her to love me for myself. I did not want any sense of duty to her father's wishes to sway her. I knew now that she did love me. And I closed the affectionate missive with the words:

"To my father and Aunt Candace you are very dear. Your mother has always been kind to me. I believe she likes me. But most of all, Marjie, your father, who lies wrapped in the folds of that Springvale flag, who gave his life to make safe and happy the land we love and the home we hope to build, your father, sent us his blessing. When the roar of cannon was changing for him to the chant of seraphim, and the glare of the battle field was becoming 'a sea of gla.s.s mingled with fire' that burst in splendor over the jewelled walls and battlements of the New Jerusalem, even in that moment, his last thought was of us two. 'I hope they will love each other,' he said to my father. 'If they do, give them my blessing.'

And then the night shut down for him. But in the eternal day where he waits our coming and loves us, Marjie, if he knows of what we do here, he is blessing our love.

"Good-night, my dear, dear girl, my wife that is to be, and know now and always there is for me only one love. In sunny ways or shadow-checkered paths, whatever may come, I cannot think other than as I do now. You are life of my life. And so again, good-night."

I had climbed to the rock above the crevice and was standing still as the night about me for the moment when a grip like steel suddenly closed on my neck and an arm like the tentacle of a devilfish slid round my waist. Then the swift adroitness of knee and shoulder bent me backward almost off my feet. I gave a great wrench, and with a power equal to my a.s.sailant, struggled with him. It was some moments before I caught sight of his face. It was Jean Pahusca. I think my strength grew fourfold with that glimpse. It was the first time in our lives that we had matched muscle. He must have been the stronger of the two, but discipline and temperate habits had given me endurance and judgment. It was a life-and-death strife between us. He tried to drag me to the edge of the rock. I strove to get him through the bushes into the street. At length I gained the mastery and with my hand on his throat and my knee on his chest I held him fast.

"You miserable devil!" I muttered, "you have the wrong man. You think me weak as O'mie, whose body you could bind. I have a mind to choke you here, you murderer. I could do it and rid the world of you, now." He struggled and I gave him air. There was something princely about him even as he lay in my power. And, fiend as he was, he never lost the spirit of a master. To me also, brute violence was repulsive now that the advantage was all mine.

"You deserve to die. Heaven is saving you for a fate you may well dread.

You would be in jail in ten minutes if you ever showed your face here in the daylight, and hanged by the first jury whose verdict could be given.

I could save all that trouble now in a minute, but I don't want to be a murderer like you. For the sake of my own hands and for the sake of the man whose son I believe you to be, I'll spare your life to-night on one condition!"

I loosed my hold and stepped away from him. He rose with an effort, but he could not stand at first.

"Leave this country to-night, and never show your face here again. There are friends of O'mie's sworn to shoot you on sight. Go now to your own tribe and do it quickly."

Slowly, like a promise made before high heaven, he answered me.

"I will go, but I shall see you there. When we meet again, my hand will have you by the throat. And--I don't care whose son you are."

He slid down the cliff-side like a lizard, and was gone. I turned and stumbled through the bushes full into Lettie Conlow crouching among them.

"Lettie, Lettie," I cried, "go home."

"I won't unless you will come with me," she answered coaxingly.

"I have taken you home once to-night," I said. "Now you may go alone or stay here as you choose," and I left her.

"You'll live to see the day you'll wish you hadn't said that," I heard her mutter threateningly behind me.

A gray mist had crept over the low-hanging moon. The world, so glorious in its softened radiance half an hour ago, was dull and cheerless now.

And with a strange heartache and sense of impending evil I sought my home.

The next day was a busy one in the office. My father was deep in the tangle of a legal case and more than usually grave. Early in the afternoon, Cam Gentry had come into the courthouse, and the two had a long conference. Toward evening he called me into his private office.

"Phil, this land case is troubling me. I believe the papers we want are in that old cabin. Could you go out again to-morrow?" He smiled now. "Go and make a careful search of the premises. If there are any boxes, open them. I will give you an order from Sheriff Karr. And Phil, I believe I wouldn't take Marjie this time. I want to have a talk with her to-morrow, anyhow. You can't monopolize all her time. I saw Mrs. Whately just now and made an appointment with her for Marjie."

When he spoke again, his words startled me.

"Phil, when did you see Jean Pahusca last?"

"Last night, no, this morning, about one o'clock," I answered confusedly.

My father swung around in his chair and stared at me. Then his face grew stern, and I knew my safety lay in the whole truth. I learned that when I was a boy.

"Where was he?" The firing had begun.