FROM THE ASHES
The nine days' wonder had come and passed. Never again could the
valley of Leaping Creek return to the conditions which had for so long
prevailed there. And strangely enough the victory won was far more a
moral than a physical one. True, one or two lives had paid for the
victory, but this was less than nothing compared with the effect
achieved.
Within three weeks a process of emigration had set in which left the
police with scarcely an excuse for their presence in the valley at
all. All those who, for long years, had sought sanctuary within the
shelter of the vast, forest-clad slopes of the valley, began to
realize that the immunity which they had enjoyed for so long was
rapidly becoming doubtful. The forces of the police suddenly seemed to
have become possessed of a too-intimate knowledge of the shortcomings
which had driven them to shelter. In fact, the limelight of government
authority was shining altogether too brightly, searching out the
shadowed corners in the lives of the citizens, and yielding up secrets
so long and so carefully hidden.
The first definite result of the police raid apparent was the "moving
on" of Dirty O'Brien. It came quite suddenly, and unexpectedly. Rocky
Springs one morning awoke to find that the old saloon was closed.
Inquiry soon elicited the true facts. O'Brien had vanished. The barn
was empty. His team and spring wagon had gone, and the house, and bar,
had been stripped of everything worth taking. The night before O'Brien
had served his customers up to the usual hour, and there was nothing
unusual to be observed. Therefore, the removal must have been effected
swiftly and silently in the dead of night, performed as the result of
careful, well-laid plans.
This was the first result of the definite establishment of police
authority. Evidently the future of Rocky Springs no longer appealed to
the shrewd saloonkeeper, and so he "moved on."
This was the cue for further goings. With the saloon closed, and the
police authority established, Rocky Springs was Rocky Springs no
longer. So, one by one, silently, without the least ostentation, men
began to yield up their claims as citizens, and, vanishing over the
distant horizon, were heard of no more.
The sledgehammer of police methods had penetrated through the
case-hardening of the village, and the place became hopelessly
impossible for its population of undesirables.
For Helen Seton those first three weeks left her with a dull,
apathetic feeling that quite suddenly her whole world had been turned
upside down. That somehow a complete wreckage of all the life about
her, her new life, had been consummated. Nor did she understand why,
or how. It seemed to her she was living in a new world where all was
misery and depression. Her usually bubbling spirit was weighted down
as with an avalanche of responsibility and unhappiness.
For her the change had begun with almost the very moment of the
felling of the old pine, and, somehow, it seemed to her as if that
wicked, mischievous monument of bygone crimes were responsible.
With the yielding up of the secrets of the Meeting House had started a
succession of shocks, each one harder than its predecessor to bear,
until she was left almost paralyzed and quite powerless to resist
them.
With Stanley Fyles heading the procession of death, with the man's
brief outline of the circumstances attending his raid, her heart
seemed suddenly to have turned to stone. Her thought turned at once to
her sister. That sister, even now away from home, waiting in dreading
unconsciousness for the completion of the disaster she so terribly
feared. To Helen's sympathetic heart the horror of the position was
magnified an hundredfold. Kate had been right. Kate had understood
where they had all been blind, and Kate, loyal, strong, brave Kate,
must learn that the very disaster she had prophesied had come, and, in
coming, had overtaken the one man they had all so earnestly desired to
shield--Charlie Bryant.
Without waiting another moment she left the scene. She had blindly
rushed from the proximity of that gaping, awe-stricken, curious crowd.
And her way had taken her straight home. She had no thought for any
object. How could she? Her mind and heart were overflowing with fear
and concern, and a world of sympathy for Kate--the absent Kate.
Charlie was dead. Charlie had been caught red-handed. Charlie, that
poor, helpless, besotted drunkard. He--he--after all their faith in
his integrity, after all Kate's lavish affection, he was the real
criminal, and--Fyles had run him to his death. She had no thought now
of Bill's absence from her side. She had no thought of anything but
this one overwhelming disaster.
So she ran on home. Nor did she pause till she flung herself upon the
coverlet of her little white bed in a passionate storm of weeping.
How long she lay there she never knew. A merciful Providence finally
sent sleep to her weary brain and heart. And when she ultimately awoke
it was to start up dazedly, and find herself staring into the solemn,
dreadful eyes of her sister, Kate, who was standing just beyond the
open doorway of her bedroom, gazing in upon her.
Then followed a scene never likely to be wholly forgotten.
She sprang from her bed and ran toward that ominous figure. She was
prepared to fling herself upon that strong support which had never yet
failed her. But, for once, no such support was forthcoming. Long
before she reached her side Kate had stepped into the room and seemed
to collapse into the rocker beside the dressing bureau. The brave
Kate was reduced to a pitiful outburst of tearless sobs.
For one brief instant Helen was again on the verge of tears, but she
remembered. With a great effort she forced them back, and held herself
in a strong grip. Then, slowly, a change began to creep over her. It
was not she who must look for support from Kate. It was she who must
yield support, and the memory of all those years when Kate, never by
word or act had failed her, came to her aid.
But though she sought by every means in her power to comfort the
heartbroken woman, her efforts were wholly unavailing. They were
perhaps worse than unavailing. For Kate proved as unreasonable as any
weak, hysterical girl, and, rebuffing her at every turn, finally broke
into such a storm of bitter self-reviling as to leave her sister
helpless.
"Leave me, Helen," she cried, through her grievous sobs. "Don't come
near me. Go, go. Don't look at me; don't come near. I'm not fit to
live. I'm a--murderess. It's I--I who've killed him. Oh, God, was
there ever such punishment. No--no. Go away--go away. I--I can't bear
it."
Horrified beyond words, stunned and confused, poor Helen knew not
where to turn, or what to do. She stood silently by--wondering. Then,
without reasoning or understanding, something came to her help just as
she was about to yield to her own woman's weakness once more.
She moved out of the room, nor did she know for what reason. Nor was
her next action any impulse of her own. Mechanically she set about the
housework of her home.
It was her salvation, the salvation of the situation. She worked, and
gradually a great calm settled upon her. Thought began to flow.
Practical, helpful thought. And as she worked she saw all those things
she must do for poor Kate's well-being.
It was a long and terrible day. And when night fell she was utterly
wearied out in mind and body. She had already prepared a meal for
Kate, which had been left untouched, and now, as evening came, she
prepared another.
But this, like the first, was never partaken of by her sister. When
she went into her own bedroom, where Kate had remained, to make her
second attempt, she found to her relief and joy that her sister was
lying on her bed sound asleep.
She stole out and closed up the house for the night.
Nor was Helen prepared for the miracle of the next morning. When she
arose it was to find her bedroom empty, and her bed made up. She
hurriedly set out in search of her sister. She was nowhere in the
house. In rapidly rising dismay she hurried out to search the barn,
fearing she knew not what. But instant relief awaited her. Kate was
outside doing all those little necessary duties by the livestock of
her homestead, which she was accustomed to do, in the calm unruffled
fashion in which she always went about her work.
Helen stared. She could scarcely believe her eyes. The miracle was
altogether beyond her comprehension. But her delight and relief were
profound. She greeted her sister and spoke. Then it was that she
realized that here was no longer the old Kate, but a changed, utterly
changed woman. The big eyes, so darkly ringed, no longer smiled. They
looked out at her so full of unutterable pain, as full of dull aching
regrets. There was such a depth of yearning and misery in them that
her greeting suddenly seemed to jar upon her own ears, and come back
to her in bitter mockery. In a moment, however, understanding came.
Intuitively she felt that her sister's grief was her own, into which
she could never pry. She must ask no questions, she must offer no
sympathy. For the moment her sister's mantle had fallen upon her
shoulders. Hers had suddenly become the strength, and it was for her
to use it in Kate's support.
So the days wore on, long dreary days of many heartaches and bitter
speculation. Kate remained the dark, brooding figure she had displayed
herself on that first morning after her return. She was utterly
unapproachable in those first days, while yet at the greatest pains to
conceal the sorrow she was enduring. No questions or explanations
passed between the two women, and Helen was left without the faintest
suspicion of the truth.
Sometimes, Helen, in the long silent days, strove to solve the meaning
of everything for herself. She thought and thought till her poor head
ached. But she always began and ended with the same thought. It was
Charlie's capture, Charlie's death which had wrought this havoc in her
sister, and she felt that time alone could remove the shadow which had
settled itself so hopelessly upon her.
Then she began to wonder and worry at the prolonged absence of
her--Bill.
* * * * *
Kate had just finished removing the remains of the evening meal. Helen
had curled herself up in the old rocker. She was reading through the
numerous pages of a long letter, for perhaps the twentieth time. She
was tired, bodily and mentally, and her pretty face looked drawn under
its tanning.
Her sister watched her, moving silently about, returning the various
articles to the cupboards where they belonged. Her eyes were shadowed.
The old assurance seemed to have gone entirely out of her. Her whole
manner was inclined to a curious air of humility, which, even now,
seemed to fit her so ill.
She watched the girl turn page after page. Then she heard her draw a
long sigh as she turned the last page.
Helen looked up and caught the eyes so yearningly regarding her.
"I--I feel better now," she declared, with a pathetic little smile.
"And--please--please don't worry about me, Kate, dear. I'm tired.
We're both tired. Tired to death. But--there's no help for it. We
surely must keep going, and--and we've no one now to help us." She
glanced down at the letter in her lap. Then she abruptly raised her
eyes, and went on quickly. "Say, Kate, I s'pose we'll never see Nick
or Pete again? Shall we always have to do the work of our little patch
ourselves?" Then she smiled and something of her old lightness peeped
out of her pretty eyes. "Look at me," she cried. "I--I haven't put on
one of my nice suits since--since that day. I'm--a tramp."
Kate's returning smile was of the most shadowy description. She shook
her head.
"Maybe we'll get some hired men soon," she said, quietly. Then she
sighed. "I don't know. I hope so. I guess we'll never see Nick again.
He got away--I believe--across the border. As for Pete," she
shuddered, "he was found by the police--shot dead."
Helen sat up.
"You never told me," she cried.
Kate shook her head.
"I didn't want to distress you--any more." Just for one moment she
averted her eyes. Then they came back to Helen's face in an inquiry.
"When--when is--Bill coming back?"
"Bill?" Helen's eyes lighted up, and a warm smile shone in them as she
glanced down at her letter again. "He says he'll be through with
Charlie's affairs soon. He's in Amberley. He's had to see to things
through the police. He's coming right on here the moment he's through.
He's--he's going to wire me when he starts. Kate?"
"Yes, dear."
Kate turned from the cook stove at the abruptness of her sister's
tone. Helen began to speak rapidly, and as she talked she kept her
gaze fixed upon the window.
"It's--it's a long while now, since--that day. We were both feeling
mighty bad 'bout things then. We," she smiled whimsically, "sort of
didn't know whether it was Rocky Springs, or Broadway, did we? And
there was such a lot I didn't know or understand. And I never asked a
question. Did I?"
Kate winced visibly. The moment she had always dreaded had come. She
had realized that it must eventually come, and for days she had
wondered vaguely how she would be able to meet it. The smile which
strove to reach her eyes was a failure, and, for a moment, a hunted
look threatened. In the end, however, she forced herself to perfect
calmness.
"I don't think I could have answered them then if you had," she said
gently. "I don't know that I can answer many now--for both our sakes."
Helen thought for some moments. Then she appeared to have arrived at a
determination.
"How did you--come home that day--and why? I didn't expect you until
the next day."
Kate drew a deep breath.
"I came back--riding," she said. "I came back because--because I had
to."
"Why?"
"Because of the--disaster out there."
"You knew?"
Kate nodded.
"Pretty well everything. That is all I can tell you, dear." Kate
crossed the room, and stood beside her sister's chair. She laid one
gentle hand upon her shoulder. "Don't ask me any more about that.
It--it is like--like searing my very soul with red-hot irons. That
must be my secret, and you must forgive me for keeping it from you.
Ask me anything else, and I will tell you--but leave that alone. It
can do nobody any good."
Helen leaned her head on one side till her soft cheek rested
caressingly upon her sister's hand.
"Forgive me, Kate," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll never
mention it again--never."
For some moments neither spoke. But Kate was waiting. She knew there
were other questions that must be asked and answered.
"Was it because of the felling of that tree you went away?" Helen
asked presently.
Kate shook her head.
"No."
Helen started up.
"I knew it wasn't. Oh, Kate, I knew it wasn't. It was so unlike you. I
know why you went. Listen," she went on, almost excitedly. "You always
defended Charlie. You pretended to believe him straight. You--you
stuck to him through thick and thin. You flouted every charge made
against him. It was because of him you went away. You went to try and
help him--save him. All the time you knew he was against the law.
That's why you went. Oh, Kate, I knew it--I knew it."
Helen was looking up into her sister's shadowed face with loyal
enthusiasm shining in her admiring eyes.
Kate gravely shook her head.
"I believed every word I said of Charlie. As God is my witness I
believed it. And I tell you now, Helen, that as long as I live my
heart will be bowed down beneath a terrible weight of grief and
remorse at the death of a brave, honest, and loyal gentleman. I have
no more to say. I never shall have--on the subject. I love you, Helen,
and shall always love you. My one thought in life now is your welfare.
If you love me, dear, then leave those things. Leave them as part of a
cruel, evil, shadowed time, which must be put behind us. All I want
you to ever remember of it--when you are the happy wife of your Big
Brother Bill--is that Charlie was all we believed him, in spite of
all appearances, and he died the noblest, the most heroic death that
man ever died."
Kate bent down and tenderly kissed the beautiful head of fair, wavy
hair. Then, without waiting for the astonished sister's reply, she
moved across to the door.
"Some day," she said, pausing with her hand on the catch, and, turning
back, smiling gently through the gathering tears, "Bill will tell you
it all. He knows it all--everything. Just now he is bound to secrecy,
but he will be released from that some day, and then--he will tell
you."