LIGHT-HEARTED SOULS
A pair of gray eyes were struggling to glare coldly into a pair of
amiably smiling blue eyes. It was a battle of one against an opponent
who had no idea battle was intended. From the vantage ground of only
partial understanding a pair of dark eyes looked on, smiling with the
wisdom which is ever the claim of the onlooker.
"This is my sister, Helen, Mr. Bryant," Kate said, with quiet
enjoyment, as her sister, perfectly composed once more, but still
angry with the world in general, abruptly entered the room from that
part of the house where her bedroom was situated.
As the words fell upon her ears, and she looked into the good-looking,
cheerful face of the man, all Helen's feelings underwent a shock, as
though a mighty seismological upheaval were going on inside her.
The man who had witnessed her discomfiture--the man who had dared to
be within one hundred miles of her when her daintily shod feet, with
a display of diaphanous stocking, had been waving in the air like two
wobbly semaphores celebrating Dominion Day or the Fourth of July,
or--or something. Those silly looking prying eyes had seen. How dared
he? What right had he to be walking down that particular trail at that
particular moment? How dared he whistle, any way? What right had he in
Rocky Springs? Why--why was he on earth at all?
At that moment Helen felt that if there was one combination in the
world she disliked more than another it was blue eyes and fair hair.
Yes, and long noses were hateful, too; they were always poking
themselves into other people's business. Big men were always clumsy.
If this man hadn't been clumsy he--he--wouldn't have been there to
see. Yes, she hated this man, and she hated her sister for standing
there looking on, grinning like--like a Cheshire cat. She didn't know
what a Cheshire cat was like, but she was certain it resembled Kate at
that moment.
"How d'you do?"
The frigidity of Helen's greeting was a source of dismay to the man,
who had suddenly become aware that she was again dressed in the
tailored suit which had so caught his fancy earlier in the day. His
dismay became evident to Kate, the onlooker. Helen, too, noted the
effect in his sobering eyes, and was resentfully glad.
"It was a lucky chance my coming along," Bill blundered. "You see, if
the dew had got on these books they'd have got all mussed. Must have
been a sort of fate about my being around, and--and finding 'em for
you."
"Fate?" sniffed Helen, with the light of battle in her eyes, while
Kate began to laugh.
"Why, sure," said Bill eagerly. "Don't you believe in fate? I do.
Say," he went on, gaining confidence from the sound of his own voice,
"it was like this. Charlie and I had been talking a piece, and then he
had to go off, and didn't want me. If he had, I should have gone with
him. Instead, I set off by myself, making toward the village. Being a
sort of feller who never sees much but what's straight ahead of him,
it didn't occur to me to look around at things. That's how it was I
didn't see you till I caught sight of your----"
"You needn't go into details," broke in Helen icily. "I just think it
was hateful your standing there looking on while I fell over that tree
trunk."
Bill's eyes took on a sudden blank look of bewilderment, which raised
a belated hope in Helen's broken heart, and set Kate chuckling
audibly.
"Tree trunk?" he exclaimed. "Did you fall? Say, I'm real sorry,
Miss Helen. I surely am. You see, I just caught sight of"--again
came Helen's warning glance, but the man went on without
understanding--"somebody in white, disappearing through the bushes,
on the run. I guessed a rattler, or a bear, or--or something had
got busy scaring you to death. So I jumped right in to fix him.
That's how I found these books," he finished up rather regretfully.
"And I was just feeling good enough to scrap a--a house."
A thaw had abruptly set in in Helen's frozen feelings. The memory of
those unfortunate feet of hers no longer waved before her mind's eye.
It was fading--fading rapidly. _He had not seen--them._ And as the
frozen particles melted, she could not help noticing what splendidly
cut features the man really had. His nose was really beautifully
shaped. She was glad, too, that his eyes were blue; it was her
favorite color, and went so well with fair hair, especially when it
was slightly wavy.
She smiled.
"Won't you sit down awhile?" she inquired, with a sudden access of
graciousness. "You see, we're very unconventional here, and your
brother's a great friend of ours." Then, out of the corners of her
eyes she detected Kate's satirically smiling eyes. She promptly
resolved to get even with her. "Especially Kate's, and--I'll let you
into a secret. A great secret, mind. We knew you were coming
to-day--had arrived, in fact--and Kate's been dying to see you all
day. Said she really couldn't rest till she'd seen Charlie's brother.
Truth."
Bill lumbered heavily into an ample rocker, and Helen propped herself
upon the table, while Kate, upon whom had descended an avalanche of
displeasure, suddenly bestirred herself.
"How dare you, Helen?" she cried, in an outraged tone. "You--mustn't
take any notice of her, Mr. Bryant. You see, she isn't
altogether--responsible. She has a naturally truth-loving nature, but
she has somehow become corrupted by contamination with this--this
dreadful village. I--I feel very sorry for her at times," she added,
laughing. "But really it can't be helped. She keeps awful company."
"Well, I like that," protested Helen, now thoroughly restored to good
humor by the conviction that Big Brother Bill had not witnessed her
shameful trouble. "Mr. Bryant will soon know which of us to believe,
after a statement like that."
"I always believe everybody." The man laughed heartily. "It saves an
awful lot of trouble."
"Does it?" inquired Kate, as she slipped quietly into the other
rocker.
Helen shook her head decidedly.
"Not when you're living in this 'dump' of a village. Say, Mr. Bryant,
you've heard of Mr. Ananias in the Bible? If you haven't you ought to
have. Well, the people who wrote about him never guessed there was
such a place as Rocky Springs, or they'd sure have choked rather than
have written about such a milk-and-water sort of liar as Mr. Ananias.
Truth, he's not a--circumstance. All you need to believe in Rocky
Springs is what you come up against, and then you don't need to be too
sure you haven't got--visions."
"Yes, and generally mighty unpleasant--visions," chimed in Kate, with
a laugh.
Bill's smiling eyes refused to become serious under the portent of
these warnings.
"Guess I've been around Rocky Springs about five hours, and the
visions I've had, so far, don't seem to worry me a thing," he said.
Helen smiled. She remembered her first meeting with this man.
"What were you doing with Fyles to-day?" she inquired unguardedly.
Bill suddenly brought his fist down on the arm of his rocker.
"There," he cried, as though he had suddenly made a great discovery.
"I knew it was you I saw on the trail. Why," he added, with guileful
simplicity, "you were wearing that very suit you have on now. Say,
was there ever such a fool, not recognizing you before?"
Helen was deceived--and so easily.
"I didn't think you really saw me," she said, without the least shame.
"You were so busy with the--sights." Bill nodded.
"Yes, we'd just come along down past that mighty big pine. Fyles had
told me it was the landmark. I--I was just thinking about things."
"Thinking about the old pine?" inquired Helen.
"Well, not exactly," replied Bill. "Though it's worth it. I mean
thinking about----. You see, a fellow like me don't need to waste many
big thinks. Guess I haven't got 'em to waste," he added deprecatingly.
Helen shook her head, but her laughing eyes belied the seriousness of
her denial.
"That's not a bit fair to--yourself," she said. "I just don't believe
you haven't got any big 'thinks.'"
Bill's manner warmed.
"Say, that makes me feel sort of glad, Miss Helen. You see, I'm not
such a duffer really. I think an awful lot, and it don't come hard
either. But folks have always told me I'm such a fool, that I've kind
of got into the way of believing it. Now, when I saw that pine and
the valley I felt sort of queer. It struck me then it was sort of
mysterious. Just as though the hand of Fate was groping around and
trying to grab me."
He reached out one big hand to illustrate his words, and significantly
pawed the air.
Helen's face wreathed itself in smiles.
"I know," she declared. "You felt your fate was somehow linked with it
all."
Kate was gently rocking herself, listening to the light-hearted
inconsequent talk of these two. Now she checked the movement of the
rocker and leaned forward.
Her eyes were smiling, but her manner was half serious.
"It's not at all strange to me that that old pine inspired you
with--superstitious feelings," she said. "It has the same effect on
most folks--right back to the old Indian days. You know, there's a
legend attached to it. I don't know where it comes from. Maybe it's
really Indian. Maybe it belongs to the time when King Fisher used to
live in the old Meeting House, before it was a--saloon. I don't know."
Helen suddenly raised herself to a seat upon the table. Her eyes lit,
and Big Brother Bill, watching her, reveled in the picture she made.
Now he knew her, his first feelings at sight of her on the trail had
received ample confirmation. She surely was one of the most delightful
creatures he had ever met.
"Oh, Kate, a legend," cried the girl, as she settled herself on the
table. "However did you know about it? You--you never told me."
Kate shook her head indulgently.
"I don't tell you everything," she said with mock severity. "You're
too imaginative, too young--too altogether irresponsible. Besides, you
might have nightmare. Anyway most folk know it in the village."
"Oh, Kate!"
"Say, tell us, Miss Seton," cried Bill, his big eyes alight with
interest. "If there's one thing I'm crazy on it is legends. I just
love 'em to death."
"I don't think I ought to tell it in front of Helen," Kate said
mischievously. "She's----"
Helen sprang from her seat and stood threateningly before her sister.
"Kate Seton," she cried, "I demand your story." Then she went on
melodramatically, "You've said too much or too little. You've got to
tell it right here and now, or--or I'll never speak to you
again--never," she finished up feebly.
Kate smiled.
"What a dreadful threat!" Then she turned to Bill. "Mr. Bryant, I
s'pose I'll have to tell her. You don't know what an awful tempered
woman it is. I really believe it would actually carry out its threat
for--five minutes."
Bill's good-natured guffaw came readily.
"I'll back Miss Helen up," he declared promptly. "If you don't tell us
we'll both refrain from speech for--five minutes."
Kate sighed.
"Oh, dear. Then I'll have to tell. It's bullying. That's what it is.
But--here goes."
Helen beamed upon Bill, and the man's blue eyes beamed back again.
While he settled himself in his chair Helen returned to her less
dignified seat upon the table.
"Let's see," began Kate thoughtfully. "Now, just where does it begin?
Oh, I know. There's a longish rhyme about it, but I can't remember
that. The story of it goes like this.
"Somewhere away back, a young chief broke away from his
tribe with a number of braves. The young chief had fallen in
love with the squaw of the chief of the tribe, and she with
him. Well, they decided to elope together, and the young
chief's followers decided to go with them, taking their
squaws with them, too. It was decided at their council that
they would break away from the old chief and form themselves
into a sort of nomadic tribe, and wander over the plains,
fighting their way through, until they conquered enough
territory on which to settle, and found a new great race.
"Well, I guess the young chief was a great warrior, and so
were his braves, and, for awhile, wherever they went they
were victorious, devastating the country by massacre too
terrible to think of. But the chief of the tribe, from which
these warriors had broken away, was also a great and savage
warrior, and when he discovered that his wife was faithless
and had eloped with another, stealing all his best war paint
and fancy bead work, he rose up and used dreadful language,
and gathered his braves together. They set out in pursuit of
the absconders, determined to kill both the wife and her
paramour.
"To follow the young chief's trail was an easy matter, for
it was a trail of blood and fire, and, after long days of
desperate riding, the pursuers came within striking
distance. Then came the first pitched battle. Both sides
lost heavily, but the fight was indecisive. The result of
it, however, showed the pursuers that they had no light task
before them. The chief harangued his braves, and prepared to
follow up the attack next day. The fugitives, though their
losses had been only proportionate with those of their
pursuers, were not in such good case. Their original numbers
were less than half of their opponents.
"However, they were great fighters, and took no heed, but
got ready at once for more battle. The young chief, however,
had a streak of caution in him. Maybe he saw what the braves
all missed. If in a fight he lost as many men as his
opponents, and the opponents persisted, why, by the process
of elimination, he would be quietly but surely wiped out.
"Now, it so happened, he had long since made up his mind to
make his permanent home in the valley of Leaping Creek. He
knew it by repute, and where it lay, and he felt that once
in the dense bush of the valley he would have a great
advantage over the attacks of all pursuers.
"Therefore, all that night, leaving his dead and wounded
upon the plains, he and his men rode hard for the valley. At
daybreak he saw the great pine that stood up on the horizon,
and he knew that he was within sight of his goal, and, in
consequence, he and his men felt good.
"But daybreak showed him something else, not so pleasant. He
had by no means stolen a march upon his pursuers. They, too,
had traveled all night, and the second battle began at
sunrise.
"Again was the fight indecisive, and the young chief was
buoyant, and full of hope. He told himself that that night
should see him and his squaw and his braves safely housed in
the sheltering bush of the valley. But when he came to count
up his survivors he was not so pleased. He had lost nearly
three-quarters of his original numbers, and still there
seemed to be hordes of the pursuers.
"However, with the remnant of his followers, he set out for
the final ride to the valley that night. Hard on his heels
came the pursuers. Then came the tragedy. Daylight showed
them the elusive pine still far away on the horizon, and his
men and horses were exhausted. He was too great a warrior
not to realize what this meant. There were his pursuers
making ready for the attack, seemingly hundreds of them.
Disaster was hard upon him.
"So, before the battle began, he took his paramour, and,
before all eyes, he slew her so that his enemy should not
wholly triumph, and incidentally torture her. Then he rose
up, and, in a loud voice, cursed the pine and the valley of
the pine. He called down his gods and spirits to witness
that never, so long as the pine stood, should there be peace
in the valley. Forever it should be the emblem of crime and
disaster beneath its shadow. There should be no happiness,
no prosperity, no peace. So, too, with its final fall should
go the lives of many of those who lived beneath its shadow,
and only with their blood should the valley be purified and
its people washed clean.
"By the time his curse was finished his enemies had
performed a great enveloping movement. When the circle was
duly completed, then, like vultures swooping down upon their
prey, the attacking Indians fell upon their victims and
completed the massacre.
"There!" Kate exclaimed. "That's about as I remember it. And a pretty
parlor story it is, isn't it?"
"I like that feller," declared Bill, with wholesome appreciation. "He
was good grit. A bit of a mean cuss--but good grit."
But Helen promptly crushed him.
"I don't think he was at all nice," she cried scornfully. "He deserved
all he got, and--and the woman, too. And anyway, I don't think his
curse amounts to small peas. A man like that--not even his heathen
gods would take any notice of."
Kate rose from her chair laughing.
"Tell the boys of this village that. Ask them what they think of the
pine."
"I've heard Dirty O'Brien say he loves it," protested Helen
obstinately. "Doesn't know how he could get on without it."
"There, Mr. Bryant, didn't I tell you she kept bad company? Dirty
O'Brien! What a name." Kate looked at the clock. "Good gracious, it's
nearly eight o'clock, and I have--to go out."
Bill was on his feet in a moment.
"And all the time I'm supposed to be investigating the village and
making the acquaintance of this very Dirty O'Brien," he said. "You
see, Charlie had to go out, as I told you. He didn't say when he'd
get back. So----." He held out his hand to the elder sister.
"Did Charlie say--where he was going?" she inquired quickly, as she
shook hands.
Bill laughed, and shook his head.
"No," he replied. "And somehow he didn't invite me to ask--either."
Helen had slid herself off the table.
"That's what I never can understand about men. If Kate were going
out--and told me she was going, why--I should just demand to know
where, when, how, and why, and every other old thing a curious
feminine mind could think of in the way of cross-examination. But
there, men surely are queer folks."
"Good-bye, Mr. Bryant," said Kate. She had suddenly lost something of
her lightness. Her dark eyes had become very thoughtful.
Helen, on the contrary, was bubbling over with high spirits, and was
loath to part from their new acquaintance.
"I hated your coming, Mr. Bryant," she explained radiantly. "I tell
you so frankly. Some day, when I know you a heap better, I'll tell you
why," she added mysteriously. "But I'm glad now you came. And thank
you for bringing the books. You'll like Dirty O'Brien. He's an awful
scallywag, but he's--well, he's so quaint. I like him--and his
language is simply awful. Good night."
"Good night."
Bill held the girl's hand a moment or two longer than was necessary.
It was such a little brown hand, and seemed almost swamped in his
great palm. He released it at last, however, and smiled into her sunny
gray eyes.
"I'm glad you feel that way. You know I have a sort of sneaking regard
for the feller who can forget good talk, and--and explode a bit. I--I
can do it myself--at times."
Helen stood at the door as the man took his departure. The evening was
still quite light, and Bill, looking back to wave a farewell, fell
further as a victim to the picture she made in the framing of the
doorway.
Helen turned back as he passed from view.
"You going out, Kate, dear?" she asked quickly.
Kate nodded.
"Where?"
"Out."
And somehow Helen forgot all the other inquiries she might have made.