BILL MAKES THREE DISCOVERIES
It was Big Brother Bill's third morning in the valley of Leaping
Creek, and in that brief time his optimism and enthusiasm for the
affairs of life in general had suffered shocks from which, at the
moment, recovery seemed altogether doubtful.
Like all simple natures, once mental disquiet set in it was not
easily shaken off. So, about nine o'clock in the morning, he found
himself sitting on the sill of the barn doorway, his broad back
propped against the casing, hugging his troubles to himself, and,
incidentally, smoking like a miniature smoke-stack.
The place was quite still under the blazing morning sun; a
collar-chain rattled inside the barn where a few horses stood
impatiently swishing off the attacks of troublesome flies with their
long tails; a hen, somewhere nearby, clucked to her brood of wandering
chicks; an occasional grunt, and curious snuffing, came from the
regions of the dilapidated hog pen. These were the only signs of
life about the place. For Charlie, after displaying an unusual
taciturnity, had taken himself off for the day, upon work which he had
declared to be imperative, and Kid Blaney, after feeding and watering
his horses, had done the same thing, on a similar excuse.
Now, Bill felt he must do one of those very big "thinks," which, on
occasion, he had been known to achieve. He felt that the time had come
when something must really be done to ease the pressure upon his
mental endurance.
The previous night had furnished the climax, a painful climax, to all
he had learned of his brother's doings, of his brother's guilt. Yes,
he no longer shrank from using that hideous word. All suspected
Charlie, the police, everybody, except Kate Seton, and Charlie had
practically admitted his guilt to him personally, without any apparent
shame or regret. But since then, since Bill had listened to the loyal
defense of Kate, he had seen for himself the smugglers and their chief
at work upon their nefarious trade, and thus further proof was no
longer necessary.
All mystery was banished. The whole thing, in spite of Kate's denial,
was as plain as daylight. Charlie was a whisky-runner. The head of
the gang. His little "one-eyed" ranch was the merest blind. His
prosperity, if prosperity he possessed at all, was the prosperity of
successful defiance of the law. To the simple brother this realization
was a terrible one. Charlie, the brother to whom he had always been so
devoted, was a crook, a mere common crook.
His discovery of the previous evening had come as a far greater shock
than might have been expected, considering all Bill had heard and
witnessed of his brother's doings. But then it is the way of things to
make the witnessing of a disaster far more terrible than listening to
the story told in language however lurid. Last night he had watched
his brother supplying contraband liquor to the saloonkeeper.
It had happened in this way. After his first experiences on the night
of his arrival he had been determined to avoid so unpleasant a
sequence of occurrences on the second. Charlie had ridden off directly
after supper, and Bill took the opportunity of paying an evening call
upon Kate and Helen Seton. The chance he had deemed too good to miss.
At least there was nothing of mystery and suspicion there, and he
desired more than anything to breathe a wholesome air of frank
honesty. These girls, particularly Helen, were the one bright spot in
this crime-shadowed valley. To his mind Helen was a perfect ray of
sunshine, which made the shadows in the place something more than
possible of endurance.
His call was welcomed in a manner that was obvious, even to his
simple mind. And never in his life had he spent an evening of more
whole-hearted enjoyment than he did with Helen, while her less
volatile sister considerately kept herself more or less out of the
way.
Had his evening ended there his peace of mind might have suffered no
further shock, but, as it was, the comparatively natural desire to
celebrate his successful evening with a drink at O'Brien's sent him
off in the direction of the village.
Proceeding rapidly along the trail, full of happy thoughts of Helen,
with her ready wit and gaiety, he was dreaming pleasantly all those
delightful dreams, which every man at some time in his life, finds
running through his head. Then suddenly he was aroused to the scene
about him by the yellow light of a back window of O'Brien's saloon,
just ahead of him.
He was approaching the saloon from the rear! How had this happened?
Then he discovered that, by some strange chance, he had left the main
trail, and was proceeding up a wagon track, which evidently led to the
barn behind the saloon.
He turned off to seek a way round to the front of the building, and
soon became so involved that he finally drew up at a low wire fence,
enclosing the rear buildings, with the lamp-lit window still directly
ahead of him. He was about to step over the wire when a movement, and
the sound of hushed voices, caught and held his attention.
He stood quite still. It was still fairly early, and the moon had not
yet risen. The outbuildings rose up in shadowy outline against the
starlit sky, and only the lamplight in the window made anything clear
at all. It was this window, and the shaft of light it threw across the
intervening space that held his attention, for it was somewhere in the
shadow, to the right of it, he heard the movement and the voices.
The movement continued, and then, quite suddenly, a figure stepped
into the light. Bill drew back farther into the shadow. It was a
man's figure, tall and lean. He was carrying something on his
shoulder, which the watcher had no difficulty in recognizing as a
small barrel. Close behind him followed a second man. He, too, was
tall and spare, and he, too, was burdened with a keg upon his
shoulder. In a moment Bill knew he was witnessing a transaction in
contraband liquor between the whisky-runners and the saloonkeeper.
His interest became absorbed. He had recognized neither of the men,
and a wild hope stirred within him that perhaps he was to gain
definite proof that Kate Seton's belief was right, and that Charlie
had nothing to do with these people. His excitement and hope became
intense.
For the moment the men had vanished through the darkened doorway of
the barn. Their voices were still hoarsely whispering, and though he
could not catch a word of what was said, he felt that they were merely
discussing their work. He waited for them to reappear. It was his
anxious desire to finally assure himself that Charlie was not with
them.
He had not long to wait. The voices drew nearer. First one man emerged
from the barn. It was one of the two he had seen go in. Then the other
followed. They crossed the light once more. He was absolutely certain
now, and a great thankfulness swept over him.
But his relief was short-lived. A third man now appeared from the
barn. He was smaller, much smaller, and very slight. His face and hair
were undistinguishable beneath his prairie hat, but his dark jacket,
and loose riding breeches were plain enough to the onlooker. In a
moment Bill's heart sank. Even in that dim light he knew he was gazing
upon the figure he had seen the night before at the old pine. There
could be no mistake. Though he could not see the man's face, his
figure was sufficient. He felt convinced that it was his brother. Kate
was wrong, and everybody else was right. Charlie was indeed the
whisky-runner whom the police were after.
Any purpose he had had before was promptly abandoned. He hurried away,
sick at heart, and hastily returned to the ranch to find
Charlie--still out.
After what he had witnessed he had no desire to meet Charlie that
night, so he went straight to bed, but not to sleep. For a long time
he lay awake thinking, thinking of his discovery. Then at last,
thoroughly weary with thinking, he fell into a troubled sleep and
dreamed that Inspector Fyles and his men were pursuing him over a
plain, upon which there was no cover, and over which he made no
progress whatsoever.
Now, as he sat at the door of the barn, brooding over all he had seen
and discovered, he felt that there were but two courses open to him.
He must either, in his own phraseology, "get out or go on." And by
that he meant he must either renounce all his affection for his erring
brother, and leave him to his fate, or, like Kate, he must stand by to
help him in the time of trouble, and do all in his power to save him
from himself. There was not much doubt as to which direction his
inclinations took, but he felt it was no time for permitting his
feelings to rule him. He must think a big "think," and adopt its
verdict.
But the "think" would not come. Only would his inclinations obtrude.
There was nothing mean or petty in this big creature. He loved his
brother frankly and freely, and his absurd heart would not permit him
to thrust those feelings aside.
Groping and struggling, and undecided, yet convinced, he finally rose
from his seat and stretched and shook himself like some great dog.
Then he looked about rather helplessly. At that moment his eyes came
to rest on the distant house of the Setons', and, as he beheld a woman
emerge from its door, a great inspiration came to him.
In a moment his dilemma disentangled itself. He laughed in very
triumph as the idea swept through his brain. It permeated his whole
being with a sense of delight. He only wondered he had not thought of
it before. It was the very thing. How the devil had he managed to miss
it? Helen was as full of plain wisdom and sense, as her pretty gray
eyes were full of laughter. She was tremendously clever. She was
always reading books. Hadn't he picked them up? Why, of course. He
would go and catch her up, and--do a big powwow and "think" with her.
His enthusiasm once more at high pressure, Big Brother Bill set off
hot foot to intercept the girl he had seen just leaving her home. She
would have to cross the bridge, that was certain--then----Ah, yes,
the church. The new church. She generally took that in on her way to
the village. She had told him that. Well, that was quite easy. He
would cut across to the old pine, he couldn't lose himself doing that,
then the trail would run right on down by the church.
For once he made no mistake in taking a short cut. He reached the
old pine safely, and felt like congratulating himself. Then a
disconcerting thought occurred to him as he contemplated the trail
down which he must proceed. The girl had a long way to go, and he had
hurried desperately. She wouldn't be up at the church for some time
yet. He felt annoyed with himself for always doing things in such a
hurry. It was quite absurd. Now he would have either to remain where
he was, kicking his heels about, or go on down to the church, and make
it look as though he were purposely lying in wait for her.
He felt that would be a mistake. She might resent it. She might regard
it as an impertinence. He couldn't afford to offend her, he was much
too anxious for her approval. He remembered her resentment at their
first meeting, and--laughed. But he told himself she was quite right.
She thought he had been spying on her. If he had been it would have
been a low-down trick. Anyway he would take no chance now. He would
wait right there, and----
A sudden commotion in the scrub beside him abruptly changed the trend
of his thought. He was startled. The commotion went on. Then with a
rush and whirr of wings, and a hoarse-throated squawk, a large bird
flew up, clutching the ruffled body of a lesser one in its fierce
claws, its great flapping wings brushing his sleeve as it swept on
past him.
His wondering blue eyes followed the bird's flight until it passed
beyond the tree tops, and became hidden by the trunk of the old pine.
Then he looked down into the bush, searching for the nest of
fledglings he felt sure the hawk had robbed of a mother.
He was absurdly grieved that his gun was still with his missing
baggage. It would have delighted him to have brought the lawless
pirate to book, and restored the mother to her panic stricken chicks.
He peered into the bush searching for the nest, but the foliage was
dense, and though he groped the boughs aside he could discover no
signs of it. Still, the thought of those motherless chicks had stirred
him, and he persisted.
Breaking his way in among the boughs he searched more carefully.
But at last, after wasting nearly a quarter of an hour upon his
tender-hearted sympathy, he finally decided that he must be wrong.
There was no nest of fledglings. He really felt quite disappointed.
Just as he was about to abandon his search something fluttered at the
very roots of the bush. It was of a grayish blue. With a lunge he made
a grab, caught it, and stood up. It was a ball of paper, loosely
crumpled.
With an exclamation of disgust he made his way out of the bush and
found himself confronted by the laughing gray eyes of Helen Seton.
"For goodness' sake, Mr. Bryant!" the girl exclaimed, "whatever are
you playing at? Is it Injuns, or--or are you busy on one of your short
cuts? I'm nearly scared to death. I surely am."
Bill looked into that laughing face, and slowly one great hand went up
to his perspiring brow. It was the action of a man at a loss.
"Guess you aren't half as scared as I am," he blurted out. "I've just
had the life scared right out of me. It was a pirate hawk. A big one
flapped up out of that bush, with a small bird in its claws. I--I was
looking for the little feller's fledglings, and the nest. Sort of
birds' nesting. You see, I guessed they'd need feeding--with their
mother gone."
Helen looked into the eyes of this absurd creature, and--wondered. Was
there--was there ever a man quite so simple and--soft hearted? Her
eyes became very gentle.
"And did you--find them?" she asked quietly.
Bill shook his head, and looked ruefully down at the paper in his
hand.
"Only this," he said, almost dejectedly.
His air was too much for the girl's sense of humor. She laughed as she
shifted the folded easel, and japanned tin box she was carrying, from
one hand to the other.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," she cried, stifling her mirth. "And--and I do so
hate hawks. They're such villains, and--and the valley's full of them.
But there, the valley is full of everything bad--isn't it?"
Bill was smoothing out the paper absent mindedly. Helen's reference
had reminded him of his purpose. Her presence somehow made it
difficult.
But Helen went on without apparently noticing his awkwardness.
"Tell me, Mr. Bryant, what was it brought you out this way, when you
ought to be worrying around getting wise to--to the ranching
business?" she demanded.
Bill flung back his broad shoulders, and, with the movement, seemed to
fling off every care. He laughed cordially.
"Say, you make me laugh," he cried. "Now if I was to tell you what
had brought me this way, you'd sure get mad." Then he discovered the
things she was carrying for the first time. "Say, can't I carry those
things?" he cried, reaching out and possessing himself of them without
ceremony. "Why, it's a paint box, and--and easel," he cried in
awe-struck tones. "I didn't guess you--painted."
Helen was frankly delighted with him, but she promptly denied the
charge.
"Paint? 'Daub,' you mean. Guess Charlie tried to knock painting into
my--my thick head. But he had to quit it after I reached the daubing
stage. I don't think he guesses I'll ever win prizes at it," she went
on, moving up toward the pine. "Still, I might sell some of my daubs
among the worst drinking cases in the village."
But Bill felt the outrage of such possibilities.
"I'll buy 'em all," he cried. "Just name your price, I'd--I'd like to
collect works of art," he added enthusiastically.
Helen turned abruptly and glared.
"How dare you laugh at me?" she cried, in mock anger. "I--I might have
paid you to take one away, but I just won't--now. So there. Works of
art! How dare you? And what are you hugging that old piece of paper to
death for? Give it to me. Perhaps it's somebody's love letter. Though
folks don't generally write love letters on blue paper. It suggests
something too legal."
Bill yielded up the paper with a good-natured smile.
"It's all mussed and dirty," he said, in a sort of apology.
"That's up to me," cried Helen. "Anyway a woman's curiosity don't mind
dirt."
She smoothed the paper carefully as she paused at the foot of the
pine. Bill looked around.
"Is this where you paint?" he asked.
Helen nodded. She was busy with the paper. Bill occupied himself by
thoroughly entangling the legs of the folded easel, in an endeavor to
set it up for her. He tried it every way without success, and finally
desisted with a regretful sigh.
"Was there ever----?" he began.
But Helen broke in with a sharp exclamation, which promptly drew him
to her side.
"This--this isn't a love letter at all," she cried amazedly.
"It's--it's--listen! 'Please have ten gallons of Brandy and twenty
Rye laid in the manger in my barn. Money enclosed. O'B!'"
Helen looked up at the man beside her. All her laughter had gone.
There was something like tragedy in her serious eyes.
Bill was staring at the paper.
"Why that's--that's an order for--liquor from O'Brien," he said, with
the air of having made a discovery.
His brilliancy passed the girl by. She merely nodded.
"How--how did it get there?" she ejaculated.
"Why, some one must have thrown it there," Bill declared deliberately.
Again the man's shrewdness lacked an appreciative audience. The girl
made no answer. She was thinking. She moved aside and leaned against
the rough trunk of the mighty pine. She was still staring at the
paper.
But her movement caught the man's attention, and the sudden
realization of the proximity of the pine recalled many things to his
mind. The pine. That was where he had seen Charlie, his first night in
the valley. That was where the police were watching him. That was
where he vanished. It was at the pine that O'Brien had warned him
Charlie had gone to collect "greenbacks"--dollars. That was O'Brien's
order, money enclosed. Charlie had found the order and money. Then,
when he was interrupted by his, Bill's, shout he had thrown the order
away.
The realization was like a douche of cold water, in spite of all he
had seen and knew. Then he did a thing he hardly understood the reason
of. It was the result of impulse--a sort of sub-conscious impulse. He
reached out and took the weather-stained paper from the girl's
yielding hands and deliberately tore it up.
"Why--why are you doing that?" Helen asked sharply.
Bill forced himself to a smile, and shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know," he said. Then, after a pause: "I guess that order has
been filled." A bitterness found expression in the quality of his
smile. "I saw the liquor delivered at O'Brien's last night. I saw the
'runners' at work. Charlie was with them. Say, where d'you paint from?
Right here?"
Helen looked up into the man's face. The last vestige of levity had
passed from her. Her cheeks had paled, and she was striving
desperately to read behind the ill-fitting smile she beheld. Bill
knew. Bill knew all that everybody believed in the valley. He had
done what nobody else had done. He had seen Charlie at his work. A
desperate feeling of tragedy was tugging at her heart. This great big
soul had received the full force of the blow, and somehow she felt
that it had been a staggering blow.
All her sympathy went out to him. Now she utterly ignored his
question. She sat down at the foot of the tree and signed to him.
"Sit here," she said soberly. "Sit here, and--talk to me. You came out
here this morning because--because you wanted to find some one to talk
to. Well?"
Bill obeyed her. There was no question in his mind. She had fathomed
his purpose, and he was glad. He replied to her challenge without
hesitation, and strove to speak lightly. But as he went on all
lightness passed out of his manner, and the girl was left with a full
view of those stirring feelings which he had not the wit nor
inclination to secrete for long.
"Say," he began, "you asked what I was doing here, and guessed
right--first time. Only, maybe you didn't guess it was you I came out
to find. I saw you leave your house, and figured you'd make the new
church. I was going right on down to the new church. Yes, I wanted to
talk--to you. You see, I came here full of a--a sort of hope, and--and
in two days I find the arm of the law reaching out to grab up my
brother. I've given up everything to come and--join. Now I'm up
against it, and I can't just think right. I sort of need some one to
help me think--right. You see, I guessed you could do it."
The man was sitting with his arms clasped about his knees. His big
blue eyes were staring out over the valley. But he saw nothing of it.
Helen, watching him, remained quite unconscious of the tribute to
herself. She was touched. She was filled with a tender feeling she had
never known before. She found herself longing to reach out and take
hold of one of those big, strong hands, and clasp it tightly and
protectingly in her own. She longed to tell him that she understood
his grief, and was yearning to share it with him, that she might
lighten the burden which had fallen upon him. But she did neither of
these things. She just waited for him to continue.
"You see," he went on, slowly, with almost painful deliberation, "I
kind of feel we can think two ways. One with our heads, and the other
with our hearts. That's how I seem to be thinking now. And between the
two I'm all mussed up."
The girl nodded.
"I--I think I know," she said quietly.
The man's face lit for a moment.
"I knew you would," he cried, in a burst of enthusiasm. Then the light
died out of his eyes again, and he shook his head. "But you can't," he
said hopelessly. "Nobody can, but--me. I love old Charlie."
"What does your head say?" asked Helen abruptly.
"My head?" The man released his knees and pushed back his hat, as
though for her to read for herself. "Guess my head says I best get
aboard a train quick, and get right back East where I came from,
and--stop there."
"And leave Charlie to his--fate?" suggested the girl.
The man nodded.
"That's what my head says."
"And your heart?"
Helen's gray eyes were very tender as they looked into the troubled
face beside her.
Bill's broad shoulders lifted, with the essence of nonchalance.
"Oh, that says get right up, and shut off the life of every feller at
the main who tries to do Charlie any hurt."
A sudden emotion stirred the girl at his side, and she turned her head
away lest he should see that which her eyes betrayed.
"The head is the wisest," she said without conviction.
But she was wholly unprepared for the explosion her words invoked.
"Then the head can be--damned!" Bill cried fiercely. And in a moment
the shadows seemed to fall from about him. He suddenly sprang up and
stood towering before her. "I knew if I talked to you about things
you'd fix me right," he cried, with passionate enthusiasm. "I tell you
my head's just a fool thing that generally butts in all wrong. You've
just made me see right. You're that wise and clever. And--and when I
get fixed like I've been, I'll always need to come to you. Say, there
isn't another girl in all the world as bright as you. I'm going to
stop right here, and I'll smash every blamed policeman to a pulp if he
lays hands on Charlie. Charlie may be what he is. I don't care. If he
needs help I'm here to give it. I tell you if Charlie goes to the
penitentiary I go with him. If they hang him, they'll hang me, too.
That's how your sister feels. That's how I feel. That's how----"
"I feel, too," put in Helen quickly. "Oh, you great Big Brother Bill,"
she went on, in her sudden joy and enthusiasm. "You're the loyalest
and best thing I ever knew. And--and if you aren't careful I'll--I'll
give you one of my daubs after all. Come along. Let's go and look at
the new church. Let's go and see how all the pious, whited sepulchers
of this valley are getting on with their soul-saving business. I--I
couldn't paint a thing to-day."