THE RISING OF A SUMMER STORM
When the horsemen had passed out of hearing, Tresler still exerted the
utmost caution. He had yet to pass the blind man's room, and he knew
that that individual's hearing was something bordering on the
marvelous, and, he argued, he must still be up, or, at least, awake.
So he moved on with the lightest tread, with every sense alert;
watchful alike for every unusual sound or movement. At the stable he
paused and gently tried the door. It was fast. He put his ear to it
and listened, and was forced to be content with the rattle of the
collar chains, and the sound of the heavy-breathing animals within. He
would have liked to investigate further, for the noise of the shutting
door, he knew, had come from the stable, but it behooved him to
refrain. It would be worse than useless to rouse the man, Anton, who
slept over the stable. And there was no other means of ascertaining
what had been going on.
He crept on; and now the shadowy outline of the house itself shut him
off from the ranch. He cleared the danger zone of the rancher's
bedroom and reached the kitchen, where he met with a first
disappointment. He was relieved and delighted to find that a light was
still burning there; but his joy was dashed almost immediately by
finding that the linen blind was down, and not a crack showed by
which he could get a view of the room. He dared not go to the door
until he had ascertained who was within, so he stood for a moment
uncertain what to do. Then he suddenly remembered that the kitchen had
another window on the far side of the lean-to. It would mean passing
out into the open again; still, the darkness was such that the risk
was reduced to a minimum.
With no further hesitation he hurried round. His only care now was to
tread quietly, and even this seemed unnecessary, for the blind man's
room was at the other side of the house, and, if his suspicions were
correct, Jake was busy at his nocturnal trade. Fortune favored him.
The blind was down, but the lower sash of the window was raised, and
he saw that, by pulling the linen on one side, he could obtain a full
view of the room.
He was about to carry out his purpose. His hand was raised and
reaching toward the window, when the sound of weeping came to him and
checked his action. He stood listening for a second. Then, with a
stifled ejaculation, he thrust his hand out further, and caught the
edge of the blind.
He paused for nothing now. He had no scruples. He knew without inquiry
who it was that was weeping within; who else but Diane could it be?
And at the sound of each choking sob, his heart was wrung, and he
longed to clasp her in his arms and comfort her. This love of his
which had taken its place so suddenly in his life thrilled through his
body like a fiery torrent roused to fever heat by the sound of the
girl's sobs.
Drawing the edge of the blind sharply on one side, he peered into the
room. His worst fears were realized. Diane was at the far side of the
kitchen sitting over the square cook-stove, rocking herself to and fro
in an access of misery, and, in what seemed to him, an attitude of
physical suffering. Her pretty head was bowed low upon her hands, and
her whole frame was shaken by the sobs she was struggling hard to, but
could not, suppress.
He took all this in at a glance, then his eyes rested upon her arms.
The sleeves of her dress had been unfastened, and were thrown back
from her wrists, leaving them bare to the elbow. And he saw, to his
horror and indignation, that the soft, rounded flesh of her forearm
was swollen and bruised. The sight made him clench his teeth, and his
blue eyes suddenly hardened. He no longer permitted caution to govern
his actions.
"Hist, Diane!" he whispered hoarsely. And he shook the stiff blind to
further draw her attention. "It is I, Tresler," he went on urgently.
And the girl sprang from her seat instantly and faced the window. She
dashed her hand across her eyes and hastily sought to readjust her
sleeves. But the pitiful attempt to thus hide her trouble only made
the signs more marked. The tears still flowed, in spite of her bravest
manner, and no effort of hers was able to keep the sweet lips from
quivering.
She took one step in the direction of the window, but drew up with
such a violent start and expression of alarm in her tearful eyes, that
Tresler peered all round the room for the cause. He saw nothing more
startling than a slumbering cat and the fragments of a broken lamp
upon the floor, and his eyes went back to her again. Then, as he
marked her attitude of attention, he understood. She was listening for
the familiar but ominous "tap, tap" of her father's stick. He too
listened. Then, as no sound came to his straining ears, he spoke
again.
"I must speak with you, Miss Diane," he whispered. "Open the back
door."
It was only after making his demand that he realized how impossible it
must have sounded to the distraught girl. It was the first time, since
he had set out to see her, that it occurred to him how one-sided was
the proposition. She had no knowledge of his resolve to thrust his aid
upon her. He told himself that she could have no possible inkling of
his feelings toward her; and he waited with no little anxiety for her
response.
Nor was that response long in coming. She made another effort to dash
the tears from her eyes. Then, half defiantly and half eagerly, she
stepped up to the window.
"Go round to the door, quick!" she whispered, and moved off again as
though she stood in imminent peril as a consequence of her words.
And Tresler was round at the door and standing in the shadow of the
water-barrel before the bolt was slipped back. Now, as the girl raised
the latch and silently opened the door, he slid within. He offered no
explanation, but simply pointed to the window.
"We must close that," he said in a low tone.
And Diane obeyed without demur. There was a quiet unobtrusive force
about this man whenever his actions were directed into a definite
channel. And Diane found herself complying without the least
resentment, or even doubt as to the necessity for his orders. Now she
came back to him, and raised a pair of trusting eyes to his face, and
he, looking down into them, thought he had never gazed upon anything
so sweetly pathetic; nor had he ever encountered anything quite so
rousing as the implicit trust of her manner toward him. Whatever he
had felt for her before, it was as nothing to the delicious sense of
protection, the indefinable wave of responsibility, almost parental,
that now swept over him. He felt that, come what might, she was his to
cherish, to guard, to pilot through whatever shoals her life might
hold for her. It was the effect of her simple womanly trust appealing
to his manhood, unconsciously for her part, but nevertheless surely.
Nor was that feeling only due to his love for her; it was largely the
chivalrous instinct of a brave and strong man for a weak woman that
filled his heart at that moment.
"There is a lot for us to talk about," he said. "A lot that others
mustn't hear," he added thoughtfully.
"What others?" Diane asked anxiously.
Tresler deemed it best to avoid half measures, and answered with
prompt decision--
"Your father, for one."
"Then," said Diane, steadying at once, "we had better close the door
into the passage."
She suited the action to the word, and returned dry-eyed and calm.
"My father?" Her question was sharp; it was a demand.
Instead of answering her, Tresler pointed to the broken lamp on the
floor.
"You have had an accident," he said, and his blue eyes compelled hers,
and held them.
"Yes," she said, after the least possible hesitation. Then, not
without a slight touch of resentment: "But you have not answered my
question."
"I'll answer that later on. Let me go on in my own way."
The girl was impressed with the gravity of his manner. She felt uneasy
too. She felt how impossible it would be to hide anything from this
man, who, quiet yet kindly, could exercise so masterful an influence
over her. And there was a good deal just now she would have liked to
keep from him. While they were talking she drew the sleeves of her
dress down over her bruised wrists. Tresler saw the action and called
her attention to the blackened flesh she was endeavoring to hide.
"Another accident?" he asked. And Diane kept silence. "Two accidents,
and--tears," he went on, in so gentle a tone that fresh tears slowly
welled up into her eyes. "That is quite unlike you, Miss--Diane. One
moment. Let me look." He reached out to take her hands, but she drew
away from him. He shrugged his shoulders. "I wonder if it were an
accident?" he said, his keen eyes searching her face. "It would be
strange to bruise both wrists by--accident."
The girl held silent for a while. It was evident that a struggle was
going on in her mind. Tresler watched. He saw the indecision. He knew
how sorely he was pressing his advantage. Yet he must do it, if he
would carry out his purpose. He felt that he was acting the brute, but
it was the only way. Every barrier must be swept aside. At last she
threw her head back with an impatient movement, and a slight flush of
anger tinged her cheeks.
"And what if it were no accident?"
"The bruises or the lamp?"
"Both."
"Then"--and Tresler's tone was keenly incisive--"it is the work of
some cruelly disposed person. You would not wilfully bruise yourself,
Diane," he moved nearer to her, and his voice softened wonderfully;
"is there any real reason why you cannot trust me with the truth? May
I not share something of your troubles? See, I will save you the pain
of the telling. If I am right, do not answer me, and I shall
understand. Your father has been here, and it was his doing--these
things."
The anger had passed out of the girl's face, and her eyes, troubled
enough but yielding, looked up into his.
"But how do you----?"
"Some one, we both know whom, has maliciously been talking to your
father," Tresler went on, without heeding the interruption; "has been
lying to him to prejudice him against me--us. And your father has
accepted his tales without testing their veracity. Having done so, he
has spoken to you. What has passed between you I do not know, nor
shall I attempt to fathom. The result is more than sufficient for me.
You are unhappy; you have been unusually unhappy for days. You have
wept much, and now you bear signs of violence on your arms."
Diane averted her gaze, her head was bent, and her eyes were fixed
upon the broken lamp.
"Shall I go on?" Tresler continued. "Shall I tell you the whole story?
Yes, I had better."
Diane nodded without looking at him.
"You know most of it, but you may not have looked at it quite in the
same way that I do." His tone was very low, there was a great depth of
earnestness in it. "We are all in the midst of a foul conspiracy, and
that conspiracy it is for us to break up. Your father is threatened.
You know it. And you are threatened with marriage to a rascal that
should be wiped off the face of the earth. And this is the work of one
man whom we believe to be the scourge of the countryside; whom we call
Red Mask or Jake Harnach, according to when and where we meet him.
Now, is this all to go on without protest? Will you submit? Is your
father to be victimized?"
The girl shook her head.
"No," she said. Then with a sudden burst of passion she went on, only
keeping her voice low by the greatest effort. "But what can we do? I
have warned father. He has been told all that you have told me. He
laughed. And I grew angry. Then he grew angry, too. And--and these
things are the result. Oh, he hates you because he believes Jake's
stories. And he scorns all my accusations against Jake, and treats me
worse than some silly, tattling servant girl. How can we do anything?"
It was that last question that set fire to the powder-train. She had
coupled herself with him, and Tresler, seeking only the faintest
loophole, jumped at the opportunity it afforded him. His serious face
softened. A slow, gentle smile crept into his eyes, and Diane was held
by their caressing gaze.
"We can do something. We are going to do something," he said. "Not
singly, but together; you and I."
There was that in his manner that made the girl droop her eyelids.
There was a warmth, a light in his eyes he had never permitted her to
see before, and her woman's instinct set her heart beating fast, so
fast that she trembled and fidgeted nervously.
"Diane," he went on, reaching out and quietly taking possession of one
of her hands, and raising it till the bared wrist displayed the cruel
bruise encircling it, "no man has a right to lay a hand upon a woman
to give her pain. A woman has a right to look to her men-folk to
protect her, and when they fail her, she is indeed in sore straits.
This," touching the bruises with his finger, "is the work of your
father, the man of all who should protect you. You are sadly alone, so
much alone that I cannot see what will be the end of it--if it is
allowed to go on. Diane, I love you, and I want you, henceforward, to
let me be your protector. You will need some whole-hearted support in
the future. I can see it. And you can see it too. Say, tell me,
little girl, fate has pitched us together in a stormy sea, surely it
is for me to aid you with all the loving care and help I can bestow.
Believe me, I am no idle boaster. I do not even say that my protection
will be worth as much as that of our faithful old Joe, but, such as it
is, it is yours, whether you take me with it or no, for as long as I
live."
Diane had had time to recover from her first embarrassment. She knew
that she loved this man; knew that she had done so almost from the
very first. He was so different from the men she had known about the
ranch. She understood, and acknowledged without shame, the feeling
that had prompted her first warning to him. She knew that ever since
his coming to the ranch he had hardly ever been out of her thoughts.
She had never attempted to deceive herself about him. All she had
feared was that she might, by some chance act, betray her feelings to
him, and so earn his everlasting contempt. She was very simple and
single-minded. She had known practically no association with her sex.
Her father, who had kept her a willing slave by his side all her life,
had seen to that. And so she had been thrown upon her own resources,
with the excellent result that she had grown up with a mind untainted
by any worldly thought. And now, when this man came to her with his
version of the old, old story, she knew no coquetry, knew how to
exercise no coyness or other blandishment. She made no pretense of any
sort. She loved him, so what else was there to do but to tell him so?
"Joe has been my faithful protector for years, Mr. Tresler," she
replied, her sweet round face blushing and smiling as she raised it to
him, "and I know his value and goodness. But--but I'd sooner have
you--ever so much."
And of her own accord she raised her other hand to his and placed it
trustfully within his only too willing clasp. But this was not
sufficient for Tresler. He reached out and took her in his powerful
arms and drew her to his breast. And when he released her there were
tears again in her eyes, but they were tears of happiness.
"And now, sweetheart, we must be practical again," he said. "If I am
to be your protector, I must not allow my inclination to interfere
with duty. Some day, when you are my wife, we shall be able to look
back on this time and be proud of our restraint. Just now it is hard.
It is a moment for kisses and happy dreams, and these things are
denied us----"
He broke off and started as the flutter of the linen blind behind him
drew his attention.
"I thought you shut the window," he said sharply.
"I thought I did; perhaps I didn't quite close it."
Diane was about to move over to investigate, but Tresler restrained
her.
"Wait."
He went instead. The window was open about six inches. He closed and
bolted it, and came back with a smile on his face that in no way
deceived the girl.
"Yes, you left it open," he said.
And Diane's reply was an unconvinced "Ah!"
"Now let us be quick," he went on. "Jake may threaten and bully, but
he can do nothing to really hurt you. You are safe from him. For,
before anything can possibly happen--I mean to you--I shall be on hand
to help you. Joe is our watch-dog, asking his pardon. You can take
heart in the thought that you are no longer alone. But developments
are imminent, and I want you to watch your father closely, and
endeavor to ascertain Jake's attitude toward him. This is my
fear--that Jake may put some nefarious scheme, as regards him, into
operation; such schemes as we cannot anticipate. He may even try to
silence me, or make me ineffective in some way before such time comes
along. He may adopt some way of getting rid of me----"
"What way?" There was a world of fear and anxiety in Diane's question,
and she drew up close to him as though she would protect him with her
own frail body.
Tresler shrugged. "I don't know. But it doesn't matter; I have my
plans arranged. The thing that is of more importance is the fact that
the night-riders are abroad again. I saw them on my way here. At the
same spot where I saw them before. This time I shall not conceal my
knowledge of the fact."
"You mean you will tell Jake--to his face?"
Diane gave a little gasp, and her beautiful eyes fixed themselves
apprehensively upon his. They had in their depths a soft look of
admiration, in spite of her anxiety and fear. But Tresler saw nothing
of that. He took her question seriously.
"Certainly; it is my only means of getting into line of battle. By
this means I shall make myself the centre of open attack--if all our
surmises be true. It is getting late and I must go. I want to witness
the return of the ruffians."
A silence fell. The man had said it was time for him to go, but he
found it hard to tear himself away. He wanted to say so much to her;
he wanted to ask her so much. Diane, half shyly, came a step nearer to
him, and, though her face was smiling bravely, a pucker wrinkled her
brows.
"Mr. Tresler----"
"I was christened 'John.'"
"John, then." The girl blushed faintly as she pronounced the name,
which, spoken by her, seemed to seal the bond between them. "Is it
absolutely necessary to tell Jake? Is it absolutely necessary to put
yourself in such peril? Couldn't you----"
But she got no further. Her lover's arms were about her in an instant.
He caught her to him in a great embrace and kissed her pleading,
upturned face.
"Yes, yes, yes, child. It is absolutely necessary. No, you can't go
yet," as she struggled feebly to free herself. "I ought to leave you
now, yet I can hardly tear myself away. I have heaps to ask you: about
yourself, your life, your father. I want to learn all there is in your
little head, in your heart, little girl. I want to make our bond of
love one of perfect sympathy and understanding of each other; of trust
and confidence. It is necessary. We come together here with
storm-clouds gathering on our horizon; with the storm actually
breaking. We come together under strange and unusual circumstances,
and must fight for this love of ours. Ours will be no flower-strewn
path. This much I have fully realized; but it only makes me the more
determined to see it through quickly. We have to fight--good. We will
be early in the field. Now good-night, sweetheart. God bless you.
Trust to me. Whatever I do will be done after careful deliberation;
with a view to our common goal. If I am wrong, so much the worse. I
will do all that is given me to do. And, last, remember this. Should
anything happen to me, you have two friends who will never let Jake
marry you. They are Joe and Arizona. Now, good-bye again."
"But nothing will happen to you--Jack?"
Every vestige of independence, every atom of the old self-reliance had
gone from the girl's manner. She clung to him, timid, loving, a
gentle, weak woman. Her whole soul was in her appeal and the look she
bestowed.
"I hope not. Courage, little woman. I remember the white dress, the
sad, dark little face beneath the straw sun-hat of the girl who knew
no fear when two men held thoughts of slaying each other, and were
almost in the act of putting them into execution. You must remember
her too."
"You are right, Jack. I will be brave and help you, if I can.
Good-bye."
They kissed once more, and Tresler hurried from the room with the
precipitancy of a man who can only hold to his purpose by an
ignominious flight from temptation.
Outside the door he paused, turned, and closed it carefully after him.
And then he listened intently. He had in no way been deceived by the
window business. He knew, as Diane knew, that she had closed it. Some
hand from outside had opened it; and he wondered whose had been the
hand, and what the purpose.
When he passed out of the kitchen, the whole aspect of the night had
changed. There was not a star visible, and the only light to guide him
was that which shone through the window. He waited while Diane bolted
the door, then, as nothing appeared to cause him alarm, he moved off.
He had to pass round the shed where Joe slept. This was an addition to
the kitchen, and quite shut off from the house. He groped his way
along the wall of it till he came to the door, which stood open. He
was half inclined to go in and rouse the little choreman. He felt that
he would like to tell his old friend of his luck, his happiness. Then
it flashed through his mind that, seeing the door was open, Joe might
still be abroad. So he contented himself with listening for the sound
of his breathing. All was still within; his conjecture was right. Joe
had not yet turned in.
He was puzzled. Where was Joe, and what was he doing at this hour of
the night?
He moved on slowly now. His thoughts were fully occupied. He was not
the man to let a single detail pass without careful analysis. And the
matter was curious. Especially in conjunction with the fact of the
open window. He attributed no treachery to Joe, but the thing wanted
explanation. He rounded the building, and as he did so understood the
change in the weather. A sharp gust of wind took him, and he felt
several drops of rain splash upon his face. A moment later a flash of
lightning preceded a distant rumble of thunder.
He quickened his pace and drew out into the open, leaving the shadow
of the woods behind him as he turned toward the ranch buildings. The
light in the kitchen had been put out. Evidently Diane had already
gone to bed. He stepped out briskly, and a moment later another flash
of lightning revealed the window close beside him. He mechanically
stretched out a hand and felt along the sill. It was tightly closed
all right. A crash of thunder warned him of the quick-rising summer
storm that was upon him, and the rain was coming down with that
ominous solidity which portends a real, if brief, deluge. He started
at a run. A drenching at that hour was unpleasant to contemplate. He
had intended witnessing the return of the night-riders, but, under the
circumstances, that was now out of the question.
He had only gone a few paces when he brought up to a stand. Even
amidst the noisy splashing of the rain, he thought he heard the sound
of running feet somewhere near by; so he stood listening with every
nerve straining. Then the promised deluge came and drowned every other
sound. It was no use waiting longer, so he hurried on toward his
quarters.
A dozen strides further on and the sky was split from end to end with
a fork of lightning, and he was brought to a dead halt by the scene
it revealed. It was gone in an instant, and the thunder crashed right
above him. He had distinctly seen the figures of two men running. One
was running toward him, and, curiously enough, the other was running
from his left rear. And yet he had seen them both. Utterly heedless of
the rain now, he waited for another flash. There was something strange
doing, and he wished to fathom the mystery.
The duration of the storm was only a matter of a few minutes. It
seemed to have spent itself in one flash of lightning and one peal of
thunder. The second flash was long in coming. But at last a hazy sheet
of white light shone for a second over the western sky, revealing the
ghostly shadow of a man coming at him, bearing in his upraised hand
some heavy weapon of offense. He leapt to avoid the blow. But he was
too late. The weapon descended, and, though he flung his arms to
protect himself, the darkness foiled him, and a crushing blow on the
head felled him to the ground. And as he fell some great noise roared
in his ears, or so it seemed, and echoed and reechoed through his
head. Then he knew no more.
All sound was lost in the deluge of rain. The sky was unrelieved by
any further flashes of light for many minutes. Then, at last, one
came. A weak, distant lighting up of the clouds, overhead, but it was
sufficient to show the outstretched form of the stricken man lying
with his white face staring up at the sky. Also it revealed a shadowy
figure bending over him. There was no face visible, no distinct
outline of form. And this figure was moving, and appeared to be
testing the lifeless condition of the fallen man.
Half an hour later the rain ceased, but the water was still racing
down the hill in little trickling rivulets toward the ranch buildings.
And as rapidly as the storm had come up so the sky cleared. Again the
stars shone out and a faint radiance dimly outlined the scene of the
attack.
Within fifty yards of the rancher's house Tresler was still stretched
out upon the ground, but now a different figure was bending over him.
It was a well-defined figure this time, a familiar figure. A little
man with a gray head and a twisted face.
It was Joe Nelson trying, by every rough art his prairie life had
taught him, to restore animation and consciousness in his friend. For
a long time his efforts were unavailing; the task seemed hopeless.
Then, when the little man had begun to fear the very worst, his
patient suddenly moved and threw out his legs convulsively. Once the
springs of life had been set in motion, the hardy constitution
asserted itself, and, without further warning, Tresler sat bolt
upright and stared about him wonderingly. For a few seconds he sat
thus, then, with a movement of intense agony, one hand went up to his
head.
"My God! What's the matter with me? My head!"
He slowly rocked himself for a brief spell; then, with another start,
he recognized his friend, and, with an effort, sprang to his feet.
"Joe!" he cried. Then he reeled and would have fallen but for the
supporting arm about his waist.
"You wer' nigh 'done up.' Say, I wus kind o' rattled. I'd shaddered
that feller fer an hour or more, an' then lost him. Gee!" And there
was an infinite expression of disgust in the exclamation.
"Him! Who?"
"Ther's on'y one feller around here hatin' you fit to murder, I
guess."
"You mean--Jake?" asked Tresler, in a queer tone.
"Sure," was the emphatic reply.
"But, Joe, I saw the night-riders go out to-night. Not more than half
an hour before the storm came on."
The little man made no answer, but quietly urged his patient forward
in the direction of the bunkhouse.