The Golden Woman Part 17

There was no mistaking the movement. Her whole manner seemed to have frozen up. The frank girlishness had died as completely as though it had never been, and the man stood abashed, and at a loss for understanding.

Now he saw before him a woman still beautiful, but a woman whose eyes had lost every vestige of that happy light. Despair was written in every feature, despair and utter hopelessness. Her mouth, that beautiful mouth so rich and delicate, was now tight shut as of one in great suffering, and deep, hard lines had suddenly gathered about the corners of it. The change smote him to the heart, but left him utterly helpless.

Realization had come. Joan had suddenly remembered all that lay behind her--all that had driven her to seek the remoteness of the wild Western world. She had sought to flee from the fate which her Aunt Mercy had told her was hers, and now she knew that she might as well try to flee from her own shadow.

Oh, the horror of it all! These people believed that she had brought them their luck. _She knew that she had._ What was the disaster that must follow? What lives must go down before the sword a terrible Fate had placed in her hand? For the moment panic held her in its grip. For a moment it seemed that death alone could save her from the dread consequences of the curse that was upon her. It was cruel, cruel--the desolation, the hopelessness of it all. And in her sudden anguish she prayed that death might be visited upon her.

But even amidst the horror of her realization the influence of the man's presence was at work. She knew he was there a witness to the terror she could not hide, and so she strove for recovery.

Then she heard him speak, and at the sound of his quiet tone her nerves eased and she grew calmer.

"I don't guess you recovered from the storm. I'd sure say you need rest," Buck said in his gentle, solicitous fas.h.i.+on. And in her heart Joan thanked him for the encouragement his words gave her. He had asked no questions. He had expressed no astonishment, and yet she knew he must have realized that her trouble was no physical ailment.

"Yes," she said, jumping at the opening he had given her, "I'm tired.

I'll--I'll go back to the house."

Buck nodded, disguising his anxiety beneath a calm that seemed so natural to him.

"Jest get back an' rest. You needn't worry any 'bout the hosses, an'

cows, an' things. I'm fixin' them for the night, an' I'll be right along in the morning to do the ch.o.r.es. Y' see I know this farm, an'

all that needs doin'. Guess I was raised on it," he added, with a smile, "so the work's sort o' second nature to me."

Joan's chance had come, but she pa.s.sed it by. She knew she ought to have refused his help. She ought to have, as Mrs. Ransford had said, sent him about his business. But she did nothing of the sort. She accepted. She did more. She held out her hand to him, and let him take it in both of his in a friendly pressure as she thanked him.

"I'm--I'm very grateful," she said weakly. And the man flushed under his sunburn, while his temples hammered as the hot young blood mounted to his brain.

A moment later Buck stood staring at the angle of the barn round which Joan had just vanished. He was half-dazed, and the only thing that seemed absolutely real to him was the gentle pressure of her hand as it had rested in his. He could feel it still; he could feel every pressure of the soft, warm flesh where it had lain on his hard palms.

And all the time he stood there his whole body thrilled with an emotion that was almost painful.

At last he stirred. He stooped and picked up the discarded fork. He had no definite purpose. He was scarcely aware of his action. He held it for a moment poised in the air. Then slowly he let the p.r.o.ngs of it rest on the ground, and, leaning his chin on his hands clasped about the haft, stared out at the hills and gave himself up to such a dream as never before had entered his life.

The sun was dipping behind the snowcaps, and for half an hour the work he had voluntarily undertaken remained untouched.

How much longer he would have remained lost in his wonderful dreaming it would have been impossible to tell. But he was ruthlessly awakened, and all his youthful ardor received a cold douche as the evening quiet was suddenly broken by the harsh voices of the crowd of gold-seekers, whom he suddenly beheld approaching the farm along the trail.

CHAPTER XII

THE GOLDEN WOMAN

Buck wondered as he noted the extraordinary picture of jubilation which the approaching crowd presented. In all his a.s.sociation with these people he had never witnessed anything to equal it or even come near it. He never remembered anything like a real outburst of joy during the long, dreary months since they had first camped on the banks of Yellow Creek.

He watched the faces as they drew near. From the shelter of the barn, whither he had retreated, he had them in full view. He looked for the old, weary signs of their recent privations and sufferings. There were none, not one. They had pa.s.sed as utterly as though they had never been.

It was a spectacle in which he found the greatest pleasure. The men were clad in their work-stained clothing, their only clothing. Their faces remained unwashed, and still bore the acc.u.mulations of dusty sweat from their day's fevered labors. But it was the light in their eyes, their grinning faces, the buoyancy of their gait that held him.

He heard their voices lifted in such a tone as would have seemed impossible only a few days ago. The loud, harsh laugh, accompanying inconsequent jests and jibes, it was good to hear. These men were tasting the sweets of a moment of perfect happiness. Buck knew well enough that soon, probably by the morrow, the moment would have pa.s.sed, and they would have settled again to the stern calling of their lives.

All his sympathy was with them, and their joy was reflected in his own feelings. Their hope was his hope, their buoyancy was his buoyancy.

For his happiness was complete at the moment, and thus he was left free to feel with those others. Such was his own wonderful exaltation that the thought of the termination of these people's suffering was the final note that made his joy complete.

He laid his fork aside and waited till they had pa.s.sed his retreat.

The object of their journey was obviously the farmhouse, and he felt that he must learn their further purpose. He remembered Joan's going from him. He had seen the pain and trouble in her beautiful eyes, and so he feared that the sudden rush of animal spirits in these people would drive them to extravagances, well enough meant, but which might worry and even alarm her.

He moved quickly out of the barn and looked after them. They had reached the house, and stood like a herd of subdued and silly sheep waiting for a sign from their leader. It was a quaint sight. The laugh and jest had died out, and only was the foolish grin left. Yes, they certainly had a definite purpose in their minds, but they equally certainly were in doubt as to how it should be carried out.

Buck drew nearer without attracting their attention. The men were so deeply engaged with the dilemma of the moment that he might almost have joined the group without observation. But he merely desired to be on hand to help should the troubled girl need his help. He had no desire to take active part in the demonstration. As he came near he heard Beasley's voice, and the very sound of it jarred unpleasantly on his ears. The man was talking in that half-cynical fas.h.i.+on which was never without an added venom behind it.

"Well," he heard him exclaim derisively, "wot's doin'? You're all mighty big talkers back ther' in camp, but I don't seem to hear any bright suggestions goin' around now. You start this gorl-durned racket like a pack o' weak-headed fools, yearnin' to pitch away what's been chucked right into your fool laps jest fer one o' Blue Gra.s.s Pete's fat-head notions. Well, wot's doin'? I ask."

"You ke'p that ugly map o' yours closed," cried Pete hotly. "_You_ ain't bein' robbed any."

"Guess I'll see to that," retorted Beasley, with a grin. "The feller that robs me'll need to chew razors fer a pastime. If it comes to that you're yearnin' fer glory at the Padre's expense--as usual."

Buck's ears tingled, and he drew closer. Beasley always had a knack of so blending truth with his personal venom that it stung far more than downright insult. He wondered what the Padre's generosity had been, and wherein lay its connection with their present purpose. The explanation was not long in coming, for Montana Ike took up the challenge amidst a storm of ominous murmurs from the gathered men.

"Don't take nuthin' from him," cried the youngster scornfully. Then he turned on Beasley fiercely. "You need Buck around to set you right, Mister Lousy Beasley," he cried. "We ain't robbin' anybody, an' sure not the Padre. He found that nugget, an' it's his to give or do wot he likes with. The gal brought us the luck, an' the Padre guessed it was only right she should have the first find. That nugget was the first find, an' the Padre found it. Wal!" But as no reply was forthcoming he hurried on, turning his tongue loose in the best abuse he could command at the moment. "You're a rotten sort o' skunk anyway, an' you ain't got a decent thought in your diseased head. I'd like to say right here that you hate seein' a sixty-ounce lump o' gold in any other hands than your own dirty paws. That's your trouble, so jest shut right up while better folks handles a matter wot's a sight too delicate fer a rotten mind like yours."

The smile had returned to every face except the foxy features of the ex-Churchman, who for once had no adequate retort ready. Curly Saunders nodded appreciation, and helped to solve the momentary dilemma prevailing.

"That's sure done it fer you, Montana," he cried gleefully. "You make the presentation. I'd say I never heard so elegant a flow of argyment in this yer camp. You'll talk most pretty to the leddy."

"An' it ain't fer me to say I can't do it if need be, neither," said Montana modestly. "Don't guess it's much of a stunt yappin' pretty to a sorrel-topped gal."

Abe Allinson laughed.

"It's sure up to you, Ike," he said. "Guess you best git busy right away."

The rest waited for the youngster's acceptance of the responsibility, which promptly came with perfect good-will.

"Gee! But you're a gritty outfit," he cried, with a wide grin.

"Say, I guess you'd need a fence around you shootin' jack-rabbits.

Jack-rabbits is ter'ble fierce. Guess you'd most be skeered to death at a skippin' lamb bleatin' fer its mother. Can't say I ever heerd tell as a feller need be skeered of a pair o' gal's eyes, nor a sight o' red ha'r. You said it was red, Pete, didn't you? I'd sure say a bright feller don't need to worry any over talkin' pretty to a gal like that. She's up agin a proposition if she thinks she ken skeer me.

Wher' is she? Jest call her out. She's goin' to git her med'cine right here in the open. I ain't doin' no parlor tricks."

The boy stood out from the crowd with a decided show of mild bravado, but he glanced about him, seeking the moral support of his fellows.

"You best knock on the door, Ike," said Curly quietly.

Ike hesitated. Then he turned doubtfully to those behind.

"You--you mean that?" he inquired. "You ain't foolin' none?" Then, as though realizing his own weakness, he began to bl.u.s.ter. "Cos I ain't takin' no foolin' in a racket o' this sort. An' any feller thinks he ken fool me'll sure hate hisself when I'm through with him."

A mild snicker greeted his "big talk," and the boy flushed hotly. He was half-inclined to add further resentment, but, second thoughts prevailing, he abruptly turned to the door and hammered on it as though antic.i.p.ating stern resistance from those within.