RECONCILIATION--MRS. VINING EXPERIENCES A CHANGE OF HEART
We were to see more of our mathematician who haunted The Hatter.
On a day, the rider who brought our mail twice weekly, delivered a fat
letter to Mrs. Horne. She read it with open mouth and called her husband
into consultation behind closed doors. Shortly afterwards they summoned
Lafe, and in about an hour, he sent for me.
"I've got to go fetch that locoed prospector," he confided. "Will you
help?"
"Why not get some of the boys to round him up?" I objected, for the mail
had brought some personal business that required thought.
"They might be rough with him. No, sir; we've got to bring him in
gentle, Dan. It's the queerest story I ever done heard. Say, don't women
do queer things? I swan, I can't figure 'em."
All of the afternoon and next morning we rode the slopes of The Hatter.
Then suddenly we saw him. The prospector was catching grasshoppers. He
made to run as we approached, but Lafe spurred his horse and headed him
off. Seeing escape barred, he stood still and waited, not without
dignity--if a man who is clutching a fist-full of grasshoppers can
possess dignity.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
"Say, you speak French, don't you?"
"I can speak five languages, sir," said the prospector pompously. And he
began to patter German.
"Well," Lafe resumed--and I could see he was impressed--"well, sir,
there's a guy at the ranch who can't speak English very good. We want
somebody to tell him what the ol' man wants--ol' Horne of the Anvil. If
you'll come down--"
"I shall be very pleased."
"Good," Johnson said in surprise. "We've got some right good liquor
there and I thought--"
The prospector laughed and looked at him cunningly. He would not mount
behind either of us, being suspicious even of the offer, but trudged
between, occasionally breaking into rambling discourses on natural
history and associated topics--such as the edible qualities of
grasshoppers, if properly stewed. It took us five hours to reach the
ranch, and our guest was then so tired that he readily acceded to the
suggestion that we eat and sleep before meeting the gentleman who spoke
only French.
Next morning, by dint of impressing on him the importance of the
transaction and the high social status of the man he was to converse
with, Lafe persuaded the prospector to bathe and don new clothes. They
belonged to Horne and sagged all over his emaciated body, but he seemed
rather proud of his appearance. Also, once started, he consented to let
Dave, the cook, cut his hair and beard.
At noon I was on the porch when a buckboard drove up, and a man and a
woman got out. The woman was heavily veiled. Both were hurried inside by
Mrs. Horne and I was sent down to the bunkhouse to carry word to Lafe
and his captive.
"That feller who just come in is a specialist," Lafe whispered on the
way to the house. "They come off the Burro express this morning."
The prospector was ushered into Horne's office, a bare room facing the
corrals. There a well-groomed man of affable manners met us and
courteously addressed him in French. They talked for a moment. The
prospector never let his gaze wander from the other's face.
"I say," he broke out abruptly in English, "isn't your name Toole?"
"It is."
"Harvard '87?"
"Yes, sir."
"That was my class."
The other affected to search his memory. He wrinkled his brow and pursed
up his mouth.
"I remember you now perfectly. You're Vining."
They shook hands. Then Vining drew back as though assailed by a
suspicion, and his glance flickered from one to the other of us like
that of an animal at bay.
"They said you couldn't speak--what does this mean, anyway? You're
trying--"
"Steady, old man," said the doctor.
The door to the sitting-room off the office opened, and Mrs. Vining came
in. She went straight to the prospector, with her hands out pleadingly.
Had she wavered, heaven knows what might not have happened.
"Harry!" she said.
What transpired after that I cannot say. Lafe and I found ourselves
outside, and there the doctor joined us.
Not long after sunrise, Johnson himself drove a light, covered wagon in
front of the porch steps, with me on the seat beside him. Our orders
were to catch the Burro express with our guests.
Mrs. Vining came first, the prospector holding fast to her arm. His eyes
were steady and he appeared perfectly rational, but uneasy and nervous,
and he still shambled in his walk. Just behind them was the specialist,
brisk and confident. He smiled on us triumphantly.
Before Mrs. Vining got into the vehicle, Mrs. Horne surged down the
steps impulsively and threw her arms about her neck and kissed her.
"Judy, I'm so--you've made me feel so--you're such a good--"
"Hush," whispered the woman of the yellow hair, and all the gay
affectation was gone from her. "Let us be thankful he's all right. If
he'll only stay--good-by, dear--we can only hope and pray God."