THE BARRIER
Jeff was abroad at daylight. Even Bud, whose habit was sunrise, had not
yet wakened from his heavy slumbers. But Nan was stirring. She heard
Jeff moving, and she saw him beyond her window. She saw him bring his
horse from the barn, saddled and bridled. In a moment he had mounted and
ridden away. Then she dressed, and, for the rest, wondered at the
possible outcome of it all. Half an hour later the sun rose and the
day's work began.
When Jeff reached his home it was still wrapped in the habit of night.
There was no one and nothing stirring, for, as yet, only the golden glow
of the eastern sky promised the coming of day.
His mood was bitter. But his purpose was calculated and deliberate. He
had given his promise in answer to Nan's irresistible pleading. But
otherwise the man was completely unchanged. He moved away down to the
corrals, and leaned against the great lateral rails which closed the
entrance. The beasts within were chewing the cud, and still picking at
the remains of their overnight feed.
They were a goodly sight to eyes that understood the meaning of such
things. It was only one of a number of corrals similarly crowded with
beasts, that were, for various reasons, herded in shelter at night.
These were a few, a very few of the vast numbers which bore the familiar
"O----" brand. There were the outlying stations which harbored their
hundreds. There were the pastures with their complement of breeding
cows. Then there were the herds of two- and three-year-olds roaming the
plains at their will, fattening for the buyers who came at intervals.
Thoughts of these things compelled Jeff now. And he saw what Nan had
saved him from. Wreck had been threatening in the course he had marked
out for himself at first. How could prosperity have maintained under the
conditions he would have imposed? Even now, under the modification which
Nan had appealed for, he failed to see the continuation of that success
he had striven so hard for. The incentive was no longer in him, he told
himself. Where lay the use, the purpose in it all? The future? That
dream future which had come to him could never mature now. It was no
longer a dream. It was nightmare.
He wondered why he had yielded to Nan's entreaty. It all seemed so
purposeless now in the broad light of day. He could force himself to
live with his wife--under the same roof. Perhaps in time he could even
meet her in daily intercourse. She might even become a factor in the
great work of the Obar. But the joy of achievement had been snatched
from him. All that he had foreseen might be achieved in the work, even.
But the process would have been completely robbed of its inspiration, and
was therefore not to be counted worth while.
The thought of the woman's regard for him left him cold. He dwelt upon
it. Suddenly he wondered. Two days ago he could not have thought of it
without a thrill. Now it meant--nothing. He remembered Nan's appeal.
Why--why had it affected him last night? It had not been because
of--Evie.
Nan had talked of justice--duty. He could see no appeal in either now.
Why should he be forced to observance of the laws of justice, or--duty
toward a woman who----?
He stirred restlessly. His attention was drawn to his horse. He moved
over to it and off-saddled. Then he returned to his place at the corral.
The sun was just breaking the horizon. He heard sounds of life coming
from the bunkhouse.
Nan's appeal no longer convinced him--now that he was away from her.
But--he had pledged his word. He could not break his word to Nan,
although he longed--madly longed to resaddle his horse and ride away, and
leave behind him forever this place which had suddenly become so full of
bitter memories. No--he had pledged his word.
Soon he must once more confront his wife. He reviewed the possibilities.
The night long he had spent in considering the position he intended to
place before her. Would she accept it? And--what then? The long days
of work, unlit by any hope of the future. The process of building,
building, which all men desire, without that spark of delight which
inspires the desire. Just the drudgery of it. The resulting wealth and
commercial power of it maybe, but not one moment of the joy with which
only two days before he had regarded the broad vista of the future.
Now the smell of cooking reached him from the bunkhouse. Several men
were moving down toward the corrals. He passed on toward the house. A
moment or so later he stood on the veranda gazing out at the streaming
cattle as they moved toward the wide home pastures, under the practised
hands of the ranchmen. It was a sight to inspire any cattleman, and, for
a moment, the brooding eyes of the master of it all lit with a flash of
their former appreciation. But the change was fleeting. The blue depths
clouded again. The question once more flashed through his
brain--what--what was the use of it all?
None, none at all. Every dream had been swept from his waking thoughts.
Every enchanting emotion was completely dead. The woman who had inspired
the rose-tinted glasses through which he had gazed upon the future no
longer had power so to inspire him. By her own action she had taken
herself out of his life. She could never again become a part of it. He
would live on with her, under the same roof, a mockery of the life which
their marriage imposed upon them. He had pledged that to Nan, and he
would not break his word to--Nan. But love? His love was gone. It was
dead. And he knew that the ashes of that once passionate fire could
never be stirred into being again.
There was a rustle of skirts behind him. He heard, but did not turn. A
fierce passion was rising to his brain, and he dared not turn until he
had forced it under restraint.
"You have come back, Jeff?"
The voice was low and soft. There was something tragically humble in its
tone.
The man turned.
"Yes, Evie." Then he added: "I told you I would."
His voice was gentler than he knew. The harshness of their previous
meeting had gone out of it. Nor was he aware of the change, nor of the
reason, although in his mind was the memory of his promise to Nan.
"And you'll tell me your decision--now?"
The humility was heart-breaking. Nor was the man unaffected by it. He
looked into the beautiful face, for the dark eyes were averted. Then his
gaze dropped to the charming figure daintily clad in a simple morning
frock of subtle attraction. But his eyes came back to the face with its
crowning of beautiful dark hair, nor was there any change in their
expression as a result of their survey.
"As well now as later."
"What is it?"
For the first time Jeff found himself gazing into the wide dark eyes.
There was pain in them. Apprehension. There were the signs about them
of long sleepless nights. He shut the sight of these things out by the
process of turning away to observe the general movement going on in the
near distance.
"Guess there's no use to say a deal," he said, a curiously moody note
taking possession of his voice. "If I did, why, I'd likely say a whole
heap more than a man may say to his wife. Guess the right an' wrong of
things had best lie in our hearts. You know just what you did, and why
you did it. I know what you did, an' can only guess why you did it. I
don't figger any talk could convince either of us different to how we
think and feel. Maybe there's Someone knows the rights of this thing
better than either of us. That being so, I allow He'll ultimately fix
things as He intends. Meanwhile it's for us to do as we feel, just so
far as our personal earthly concerns go."
The coldness in his voice had grown, and it left Evie with a complete
sense of hopelessness that was harder to bear than any fears which
violence of language might have inspired.
His pause was prolonged. She made no effort to break it, she dared not
break it. For the man, he was gathering the threads of what he had to
say so as to deliver it concretely. He feared to prolong this interview.
In view of his decision he must not risk any violent outbreak such as his
feelings were even now striving to force upon him.
"Maybe you'll remember what I said to you about Ronny just after we
were--married. I don't guess you'll have forgotten, seeing things are as
they are. What I said then stands now. If you'd been a man I'd have
shot you down in your tracks when I got to home last night. That should
say all that need be said about how I'm feeling now. You aren't a man,
and you're my wife. Well--you're still my wife. That means it's up to
me to keep you as though this thing hadn't broken things up. I intend to
act as right as I can by you. This is your home. You must use it, if
you feel that way. The Obar has to go on. It's your means of living.
It's my means of living. Then there are others concerned in it. For
these reasons I shall carry on things, and your knowledge of this sort of
work should hand you a reasonable share in the running of this place. If
you feel you can act this way, without remembering we're man and wife,
why, I guess we can agree to live our--separate--lives under the same
roof. If you don't feel you can do this, why, you need to say so right
here an' now, an' state your wishes. I'll do my best to carry them
through, provided you understand our lives are separate from now on. Do
you get that?"
Did she get it? Could there be any mistaking those cold tones, that
ruthless decision?
From slightly behind him Elvine had stood watching with straining eyes
the still figure, speaking with so obvious a repression of feeling, his
eyes steadily fixed upon the distant horizon. Once or twice an ominous
flush had suddenly flamed up in her eyes. A deep flush had stained her
cheeks. But as he ceased speaking the same shrinking, the same humility
marked her attitude. She knew instinctively she dared not say the things
she was yearning to pour out. She knew instinctively that any such
course would at once break down that thin veneer of restraint he was
exercising. And for perhaps the first time in her life she stood awed
and cowed by a man.
But this woman was the slave of her passions, and she knew it. It was
this now that made a coward of her. With all the power of self in her
she had abandoned herself to her love for her husband. And, with slavish
submission, she was prepared to accept his words rather than banish
herself out of his presence altogether. A mad, wild hope lay somewhere
deep down in her heart that some day he could be made to forget. That
some day, through what looked to her like endless days of devotion and
help, she might win back something of what she had lost. She knew her
own attraction. She knew her own powers. Might there not then be hope
in the dim future?
She had no pride where Jeff was concerned. She wanted him. His love was
all life to her now. If she had followed the natural course which should
have been hers and refused his proposal, she would have been closing the
door, finally, upon all that made life possible. If she submitted there
still remained to her the vaguest possible shadow of hope. This was her
thought and motive in the crisis with which she was faced, and her
calculations were made out of her yearning, and without true
understanding of the man with whom she was dealing.
Jeff awaited her decision under an enforced calm.
"It's for you to say," she said, after some moments. "Nor is the choice
mine. I shall obey. You've said I can help in the work. Maybe it's my
right. I'll claim that right anyway. It's the only right I'll claim.
I've only one other thing to say, and maybe you'll let me speak it this
once."
"Go on."
"I didn't guess I was doing wrong. I don't know now I did wrong.
Anyway, if what I did was wrong it's against God's laws and not man's.
Maybe you've a right to punish me. I don't know. Anyway, my life and
interests are bound to yours, and I want you to know every effort of mine
will be to further--your interests. This has made no change in me--that
way. You can trust me as you'd trust yourself. I'm not here to squeal
for any mercy from you, Jeff. And maybe some day you'll--understand. I
guess your breakfast's ready. I'll have mine later."
* * * * * *
Later in the day Elvine rode out from the ranch house. Nor did she
concern herself with her object, nor her course, beyond a wild desire for
the solitude of the hills. The full torture of the new life, on the
threshold of which she now stood, had not come upon her until after the
effects of her interview with her husband had had time to calm down.
Then to remain in the house, which had become a sort of prison to her,
was made impossible. She must get out. She must break into activity.
She felt that occupation alone could save her reason.
So she struck out for the hills. Their claim of earlier days was upon
her. The hills, and their wooded valleys. Their brooding calm, their
dark shadows, their mysterious silence. These things claimed her mood.
She rode recklessly across the wide spread of Rainbow-Hill Valley. She
had no thought for the horse under her. She would have welcomed the
pitfalls which mighty have robbed her of the dreadful consciousness of
the disaster which had overwhelmed her. She was striving to flee from
thoughts from which she knew there was no escape. She was striving to
lose herself in the activities of the moment.
The switchback of the plain rose and fell under her horse's busy hoofs.
It rose higher, and ever higher, as she approached the western slopes.
She left the fenced pastures behind her, and the last signs of the life
to which she was now committed. Before her the woodlands rose up
shrouded in their dark foliage. The mourning aspect of the pines suited
her temper; she felt as though their drooping boughs were in harmony with
the bereavement of her soul.
She plunged amidst the serried aisles of leafless trunks with something
like welcome for their shadows. She rode on regardless of distance and
direction.
From the crest of a hill she looked down upon narrow mountain creek
surging between borders of pale green foliage. The sound of the waters
came up to her, and the wilderness of it all appealed, as, at that
moment, nothing else could have appealed. She pressed her blowing horse
forward, and rode down to the banks so densely overgrown.
She leaped from the saddle. She relieved her horse of its saddle and
flung herself upon the mossy ground in the shelter of a cluster of
spruce. The humid heat was oppressive. The tumbling waters were unable
to stir the atmosphere. But their music was soothing, and the sight of
their turbulent rush seemed to hold sympathy for her troubled heart. And
so she lay there, her head propped upon a supporting hand, and yielded
herself to the sway of her emotions.
After a while tears dimmed her eyes. They overflowed down her cheeks.
She had reached the end of endurance before yielding to her woman's
pitiful weakness. Time had no meaning now. Place had lost its
influence. She saw nothing, knew nothing but the trouble which had
robbed her of all she lived for.
Then came the inevitable. Her tears eventually relaxed the tension of
her nerves, and, after several ineffectual attempts to keep them open,
the weight of the atmosphere closed her eyes and yielded her the final
mercy of sleep.
* * * * * *
Elvine awoke with a start. She awoke with the conviction of the presence
of the man she had met in the hill regions before. She knew some one was
near her, but, for the moment----
Yes. She sat up. A pair of brown eyes were gazing down into hers. Then
came the voice, and it was low, and gentle. It had nothing startling in
it.
"Why, say, an' I've been hunting your trail this hour, taking you
for--some one else."
Nan had been standing with her arm linked through her horse's reins. Now
she relinquished them, and flung herself upon the ground before the
startled woman.
Elvine stared at her with unease in her dark eyes. Nor did she gain
reassurance from the pretty face with its soft brown hair, and the
graceful figure beneath its brown cloth riding suit. Yet she was not
insensible to the companionship. Her greater fears had been of the man,
Sikkem, who had been in her waking thoughts.
"You were following my tracks?" she demanded uncertainly.
Nan's eyes grew grave.
"I certainly was. Though I didn't guess they were yours. Say, you must
have crossed the tracks I was following," she added thoughtfully. "Did
you see anybody? Four fellers? Mighty tough-looking citizens, an'
strangers?"
The frankness of the girl reestablished confidence.
Elvine sat up.
"No," she said. Then the wonder of it possessed her. "But you--you
alone were following on the tracks of four tough strangers?" she cried
incredulously.
Nan smiled. Her smile was pretty. It was a confident, wise little smile.
"Sure," she said. "I saw them, and it was up to me. You see, Evie, we
folks out here kind of need to think diff'rent. A girl can't just help
being a girl, but when rustlers are around, raising small Cain with her
men-folks' goods, why, she's got to act the way they would when they
light on a suspicious trail. I was guessing that track would lead me
somewhere. But," she added with a grimace, "I wasn't as smart as I
figgered. You must have crossed it, an' I lost 'em."
"But can't you get back to it? Maybe I can help some. I've followed a
trail before," Elvine added, in a tone which Nan understood better than
the other knew.
But the girl shook her head.
"My plug is tired, and there's the chase back to home. I guess we'll
leave 'em, and just--report. But there's something doing. I mean
something queer. These folk don't reckon to show themselves in daytime,
and I guess they were traveling from the direction of Spruce Crossing."
"That's where the man Sikkem's stationed," said Elvine.
"Sure. But I don't guess they been near his shanty. They wouldn't fancy
gettin' around Sikkem's lay-out in daytime. You see, he's--sudden."
Nan's confidence was not without its effect. But Elvine was less sure.
"This Sikkem. I don't like him. But----"
Nan dismissed the matter in her own way.
"Sikkem's been on the ranch nigh three years. He's a cattleman first,
and hates rustlers worse than poison. But he's tough. Oh, he's tough,
all right. I wouldn't gamble a pea-shuck he hasn't quite a dandy bunch
of notches on his gun. But we're used to his sort."
Then she went on in a reflective fashion as though hollowing out a train
of thought inspired by the man under discussion:
"Sort o' seems queer the way we see things. Right here on the prairie we
mostly take folks on trust, an' treat 'em as we find 'em. Maybe they're
wanted for all sorts of crimes. Maybe they done a turn in penitentiary.
Maybe they even shot up folk cold. These things don't signify a cent
with us so they handle cattle right, and are ready to push lead into any
bunch of rustlers lyin' around. Guess it's environment makes us that
way. The prairie's so mighty wide it helps us folks to get wide."
Evie was watching the play of the girl's expressive eyes.
"I wonder--if you're right."
"Mostly, I guess."
"Mostly?"
Nan nodded.
"It isn't easy to condemn amongst folks on the prairie," she said with a
sigh.
Elvine shook her head. Her eyes were turned from the girl. They were
staring down into the turbulent stream.
"I don't think I've found it that way."
"How?"
The interrogation was natural. But it brought Elvine's eyes sharply to
the girl's, and, for a moment, they gazed steadily into each other's.
Then the woman's graceful shoulders went up.
"I see you know."
"And--you aren't mad with me for knowing? You aren't mad with Jeff for
me knowing? I wanted you to know I knew. I wanted to tell you I knew,
only I didn't just know how to tell you. Then I wanted to tell
you--something else."
There was simple sincerity in every word the girl spoke. The light in
her eyes was shining with truth. Elvine saw it, and knew these things
were so, and, in her loneliness of heart, in her brokenness of spirit,
she welcomed the chance of leaning for support upon a soul so obviously
strong and sympathetic. She yielded now as she would never have believed
it possible to yield.
Suddenly she raised her hands to her head and pressed her fingers to her
temples.
"Oh, I--I don't know what to do. I sort of feel I just can't--can't stop
around. And yet---- Oh, I love him so I can't, daren't leave him
altogether. You can't understand, child, no one can. You--oh, you've
never known what love is, my dear. I'm mad--mad for him. And--and I can
never come into his life again."
She dropped her hands from her head in a movement that to Nan seemed as
though she were wringing them. Nan's own heart was thumping in her
bosom. She, too, could have cried out. But her eyes steadily, and
almost tenderly, regarded the woman who had taken Jeff from her.
"You must stop around," she said in a low, firm tone. "Say, Evie, I
don't guess I'm bright, or clever, or anything like that. I don't reckon
I know things different to other folk. But just think how it would be if
you went away now. You'd never see Jeff again, maybe, and he'd never
know just how you love him. You see, men-folk are so queer, too. Maybe
Jeff's right, and you and me are wrong. Maybe we're right, and he's all
wrong. I can't say. But I tell you Jeff needs you now--more than ever.
He don't know it, maybe. But he wants you, and if you love him you'll
just--stand by. Oh, I could tell you of a thousand ways you can help
him. A thousand ways you can show him your love without telling him. It
means a hard fight for you. I know. And maybe you'll think he isn't
worth it. But he is--to you. You love him. And any man a woman loves
is worth to her every sacrifice she can make. I don't know. Maybe you
got to be punished, not by us folk, not for what you done to Jeff. But
Someone guesses you got to be punished, and this is the way He's fixed
it. Say, Evie, you won't let go of things, will you? Maybe you can't
see ahead just now. But you will--later. You love Jeff, and he just
loves you, though he's sort of blind to it now. But he loves you, an' no
one else. He wouldn't act the way he's doing if it weren't so. I sort
of felt I must say all this to you. I--I don't know why--just. But I
won't ever talk like this again. I haven't a right, I know. But I don't
mean harm. I don't sure. And if you'll let me help you anyway I can
I'll--be real glad."