The Golden Woman Part 40

"That's enough," she cried. "You needn't tell me any more. I--I understand. Oh, the brutal, heartless ruffians! Tell me. Who was it said these things? I demand to know. I insist on the names. Oh!"

The girl's exasperation was even greater than Beasley had hoped for.

He read, too, the shame and hurt underlying it, and his satisfaction was intense. He felt that he was paying her off for some of the obvious dislike she had always shown him, and it pleased him as it always pleased him when his mischief went home. But now, having achieved his end, he promptly set about wriggling clear of consequences, which was ever his method.

"I'd like to give you the names," he said frankly. "But I can't. You see, when fellers are drunk they say things they don't mean, an' it wouldn't be fair to give them away. I jest told you so you'd be on your guard--just to tell you the folks are riled. But it ain't as bad as it seems. I shut 'em up quick, feeling that no decent citizen could stand an' hear a pretty gal slandered like that. An' I'll tell you this, Miss Golden, you owe me something for the way I made 'em quit.

Still," he added, with a leer, "I don't need payment. You see, I was just playin' the game."

Joan was still furious. And somehow his wriggling did not ring true even in her simple ears.

"Then you won't tell me who it was?" she cried.

Beasley shook his head.

"Nuthin' doin'," he said facetiously.

"Then you--you are a despicable coward," she cried. "You--oh!" And she almost fled out of the hated creature's storeroom.

Beasley looked after her. The satisfaction had gone from his eyes, leaving them wholly vindictive.

"Coward, am I, ma'm!" he muttered. Then he looked at the order for furniture which was still in his hand.

The sight of it made him laugh.

CHAPTER XXV

BUCK LAUGHS AT FATE

The telling of the Padre's story cost Buck a wakeful night. It was not that he had any doubts either of the truth of the story, or of his friend. He needed no evidence to convince him of either. Or rather, such was his nature that no evidence could have broken his faith and friends.h.i.+p. Strength and loyalty were the key-note of his whole life.

To him the Padre was little less than a G.o.d, in whom nothing could shake his belief. He honored him above all men in the world, and, such as it was, his own life, his strength, his every nerve, were at his service. Moreover, it is probable that his loyalty would have been no whit the less had the man pleaded guilty to the crime he was accused of.

No, it was not the story he had listened to which kept him wakeful. It was not the rights or wrongs, or the significance of it, that inspired his unrest. It was something of a far more personal note.

It was the full awakening of a mind and heart to a true understanding of themselves. And the manner of his awakening had been little short of staggering. He loved, and his love had risen up before his eyes in a manner the full meaning of which he had only just realized. It was his friend who had brought about his awakening, his friend who had put into brief words that which had been to him nothing but a delicious dream.

The man's words rang through his brain the night long.

"Why? Why?" they said. "Because you love this little Joan, daughter of my greatest friend. Because I owe it to you--to her, to face my accusers and prove my innocence."

That brief pa.s.sionate declaration had changed the whole outlook of his life. The old days, the old thoughts, the old unexpressed feelings and hazy ambitions had gone--swept away in one wave of absorbing pa.s.sion.

There was neither future nor past to him now. He lived in the thought of this woman's delightful presence, and beyond that he could see nothing.

Vaguely he knew that much must lay before him. The past, well, that was nothing. He understood that the drift of life's stream could no longer carry him along without his own effort at guidance. He knew that somewhere beyond this dream a great battle of Life lay waiting for his partic.i.p.ation. He felt that henceforth he was one of those struggling units he had always regarded as outside his life. And all because of this wonderful sunlight of love which shone deep into the remotest cells of brain and heart. He felt strong for whatever lay before him. This perfect suns.h.i.+ne, so harmonious with every feeling, thrilled him with a virile longing to go out and proclaim his defiance against the waiting hordes in Life's eternal battle. No road could be so rough as to leave him shrinking, no fight so fierce that he was not confident of victory, no trouble so great that it could not be borne with perfect cheerfulness. As he had awakened to love so had he awakened to life, yearning and eager.

As the long night wore on his thought became clearer, more definite.

So that before his eyes closed at last in a broken slumber he came to many decisions for the immediate future. The greatest, the most momentous of these was that he must see Joan again without delay. He tried to view this in perfect coolness, but though the decision remained with him the fever of doubt and despair seized him, and he became the victim of every fear known to the human lover's heart. To him who had never known the meaning of fear his dread became tenfold appalling. He must see her--and perhaps for the last time in his life.

This interview might well terminate once and for all every thought of earthly happiness, and fling him back upon the meagre solace of a wilderness, which now, without Joan, would be desolation indeed.

Yet he knew that the chances must be faced now and at once. For himself he would probably have delayed, rather basking in the suns.h.i.+ne of uncertainty than risk witnessing the swift gathering clouds which must rob him of all light forever. But he was not thinking only of himself. There was that other, that white-haired, lonely man who had said, "Because you love this little Joan."

The wonderful unselfishness of the Padre had a greater power to stir Buck's heart than any other appeal. His sacrifice must not be permitted without a struggle. He knew the man, and he knew how useless mere objection would be. Therefore his duty lay plain before him. Joan must decide, and on her decision must his plans all be founded. He had no reason to hope for a return of his love. On the contrary, it seemed absurd even to hope, and in such an event then the Padre's sacrifice would be unnecessary. If on the other hand--but he dared not let the thought take shape. All he knew was that with Joan at his side no power of law should touch one single white hair of the Padre's head, while the breath of life remained in his body.

It was a big thought in the midst of the most selfish of human pa.s.sions. It was a thought so wide, that, in every aspect, it spoke of the great world which had been this man's lifelong study. It told of sublime lessons well learned. Of a mind and heart as big, and broad, and loyal as was the book from which the lessons had been studied.

With the morning light came a further steadiness of decision. But with it also came an added apprehension, and lack of mental peace. The world was radiant about him with the wonder of his love, but his horizon was lost in a mist of uncertainty and even dread.

The morning dragged as such intervening hours ever drag, but at length they were done with, and the momentous time arrived. Neither he nor the Padre had referred again to their talk. That was their way. Nor did any question pa.s.s between them until Caesar stood saddled before the door.

The Padre was leaning against the door casing with his pipe in his mouth. His steady eyes were gravely thoughtful.

"Where you making this afternoon?" he inquired, as Buck swung into the saddle.

Buck nodded in the direction of Joan's home.

"The farm."

The Padre's eyes smiled kindly.

"Good luck," he said. And Buck nodded his thanks as he rode away.

But Buck's outward calm was studied. For once in his life his confidence had utterly failed him. He rode over the trail in a dazed condition which left him almost hopeless by the time he reached the familiar corrals of the girl's home. As a consequence he reduced Caesar's pace to a walk with something almost childlike in his desire to postpone what he now felt must be his farewell to the wonderful dream that had been his.

But even at a walk the journey must come to an end. In his case it came all too soon for his peace of mind, and, to his added disquiet, he found himself at the door of the old barn. Just for one moment he hesitated. Then he lightly dropped to the ground. The next moment the horse itself had taken the initiative. With none of its master's scruples it clattered into the barn, and, walking straight into its old familiar stall, commenced to search in the corners of the manger for the sweet-scented hay usually awaiting it.

The lead was irresistible to the man. He followed the creature in, removed its bridle and loosened the cinchas of the saddle. Then he went out in search of hay.

His quest occupied several minutes. But finally he returned with an ample armful and filled up the manger. Then came upon him a further avalanche of doubt, and he stood beside his horse, stupidly smoothing the beautiful creature's warm, velvet neck while it nuzzled its fodder.

"Why--is that you, Buck?"

The exclamation startled the man out of his reverie and set his pulses hammering madly. He turned to behold Joan framed in the doorway. For a moment he stared stupidly at her, his dark eyes almost fearful. Then his answer came quietly, distinctly, and without a tremor to betray the feelings which really stirred him.

"It surely is," he said. Then he added, "I didn't know I was coming along when you were up at the fort yesterday."

But Joan was thinking only how glad she was of his coming. His explanation did not matter in the least. She had been home from the camp something over an hour, and had seen some one ride up to the barn without recognizing Buck or the familiar Caesar. So she had hastened to investigate. Something of her gladness at sight of him was in the manner of her greeting now, and Buck's despondency began to fall from him as he realized her unfeigned pleasure.

"I'm so glad you came," Joan went on impulsively. "So glad, so glad.

I've been in camp to order things for--for my aunt's coming. You know your Padre told me to send for her. I mailed the letter this morning."

"You--sent for your aunt?"

In a moment the whole hideous position of the Padre came upon him, smothering all his own personal feelings, all his pleasure, all his doubts and fears.

"Why--yes." Joan's eyes opened wide in alarm. "Have I done wrong? He said, send for her."