PADLOCKED LIPS
YET though the public was in a measure prepared there was a gasp of
surprise when the word spread that Sheriff Matson had arrested and
brought to Wagon Wheel six cattlemen from the Hill Creek district. McCoy
and Rogers were so well and favourably known that the charge of murder
against them set tongues buzzing far and wide. Yerby had not been so
long in the district, but he, too, bore the best of reputations. By
reason of his riding and his gay good-fellowship Larry Silcott was a
favourite with the young people. In the cattle country, where he was
best known, Jack Cole’s character was as good as a letter of credit. Of
the six, Falkner alone bore a rather doubtful reputation.
When the news of the arrests reached the Dude Ranch, Ruth was out on the
mesa doing a sketch of the sunset. She was not really painting to any
purpose, but had come out to be alone. It had been a wonderful autumn
day of purple hills and drifting mists that wrapped the cañons in a
gossamer scarf of gray. Just below the mesa the valley lay in a golden
harmony of colour beneath a sky soft with rain clouds. It was a picture
that just now filled Ruth with deep peace. The brush lay idle in her
fingers, and on the face of the girl was a soft and rapt exaltation.
She had a secret. Sometimes it filled her with a wild and tremulous
delight. Again she stood before it with awe and even terror. More than
once in the night she had found herself weeping with poignant self-pity.
There were hours when her whole soul cried out for Rowan, and others
when she hated him with all the passionate intensity of her untutored
heart. Life, which had been so familiar and easy, took on strange and
inexplicable phases. She had become a mystery to herself.
A chill wind from the snow peaks swept the mesa. Ruth gathered up her
belongings and walked back to the house. She slipped in quietly by the
back door, intent on reaching her room unnoticed. As she passed the door
of the big lounging room the voice of Tim Flanders boomed out:
“I tell you that if McCoy led that raid there was no intention of
killing Tait and Gilroy. I’ve known Mac twenty-five years. He’s white
clear through.”
Ruth wheeled into the room instantly. She went straight to Flanders.
“Who says Rowan led that raid?” she demanded, white to the lips.
There was a long moment of silence. Then: “He’ll clear himself,”
Flanders replied lamely.
The young wife had not known her husband was even suspected. She caught
the back of a chair with a grip so tight that the knuckles lost their
colour.
“Tell me—tell me what you mean.”
He tried to break it gently, but blundered out that the sheriff had to
arrest somebody and had chosen McCoy among others.
“Where is he?” And when she knew: “Take me to him!” she ordered.
Flanders wasted no words in remonstrance. He agreed at once, and had his
car waiting at the door before Ruth had packed her suitcase. Through the
darkness he drove down the steep mountain road to Wagon Wheel.
By the time they reached town it was too late to get permission of the
sheriff to see her husband that night, but Tim made arrangements by
which she was to be admitted to his cell as soon as breakfast was over
next morning.
Ruth slept brokenly, waking from bad dreams to a realization of the
dreary truth. One of the dreams was that they were taking Rowan out to
hang him and he refused to say good-bye to her.
When she came to breakfast at the hotel it was with no appetite. Tim
insisted on her eating, but the toast she munched at stuck in her
throat.
“You drink your coffee, anyhow, honey. You’ll feel better,” he urged.
* * * * *
The limbs of the girl trembled as she followed the jailer. The pulse in
her throat was beating fast.
At sight of her standing in the shadow of his cell, Rowan drew a deep,
ragged breath. The tired eyes in the oval of her pale face held the
weariness of woe. Always the clear-cut, delicate face of his sweetheart
had touched him nearly, but now it seemed to have the poignant,
short-lived charm of a flower. The youth in her was quenched. He had
ruined her life.
His impulse was to sweep her into his arms and comfort her, but he
lacked the courage of his desire. Every fibre of him was hungry for her,
but he looked at her impassively without speaking. The tragic gravity of
her told him that she had come as a judge and not as a lover.
When the guard had gone she asked her question: “You didn’t do it, did
you?”
His throat ached with tightness. There was nothing he could say to
comfort her. He could not even, on account of the others, tell her the
truth and let her decide for herself the extent of his guilt.
“Tell me you didn’t do it!” she demanded.
Beneath the tan he was gray. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you
everything. But I can’t talk—even to you.”
“Can’t talk!” she echoed. “When you are accused of—of this horrible
thing, aren’t you going to tell everybody that it is a lie?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t so simple as that. I can’t talk about the
case because——”
“I’m not asking you to talk about the case. I’m asking you to tell me
that you’re innocent—that it’s all an awful mistake,” she ended with a
sob.
“If you’ll only trust me—and wait,” he began desperately. “Some day
I’ll tell you everything. But now—I wish I could tell you—I wish I
could.”
“You mean that you don’t trust me.”
“No. I trust you fully. But the charge against me lies against others,
too. I can’t talk.”
“You can’t even tell me that you didn’t murder two men in their sleep?”
Her voice was sharp. All the pain and torture of the long night rang out
in it.
He winced. “I’ll have to trust to your mercy to believe the best you can
of me.”
“What can I believe when you won’t even deny the charge? What else is
there to think but that——” She broke off and began to whimper.
He took a step toward her, but a swift gesture of her hand held him
back. “No—no! You can’t trust me. That’s all there is to it—except
that you’re guilty. I’d never have believed it—never in the world—not
even after what I know of you.”
Rowan longed to cry out to her to have faith in him. He wanted
desperately to bridge the gulf that was growing wider between them, to
have her see that he had closed the door behind him and must follow the
course he had chosen. But he was dumb. It was not in him to express his
feeling in words.
Into the delicate white of her cheeks excitement had brought a stain of
pink. Eagerly she poured out her passionate protest:
“You don’t mean me to think—surely you can’t mean—that—that—you did
this horrible thing! You couldn’t have done it! The thing isn’t
possible. Tell me you had nothing to do with it.”
He felt himself trapped in a horrible ambuscade. He would not lie to
her. He could not tell the truth. If she would only have faith in
him——
But there was no chance of that. To look at the hostile, accusing gaze
of this girl was to know that he had lost her. She had demanded of him a
confidence that was not his to give, a pledge of innocence he could not
make.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Her affronted eyes stabbed him. “That’s all you have to tell me?”
“If you only knew.”
The dumb appeal of him might have moved her, but it did not. She was too
full of her wrongs.
“But I don’t know, and you won’t tell me. So there’s nothing more to be
said.”
Suddenly she broke down, turned away with a sob, and through the
blindness of her tears groped to the door. She had rushed to him—to
tell him that she knew he was innocent, and he had repulsed her, had
made a stranger of her. In effect, he had told her that he did not want
her help, that he would go through his trouble alone. If he had really
loved her—ah, if he had loved her, how differently he would have acted!
A great lump filled her throat and choked her.
Rowan watched her go, his fingers biting into the palms of his hands.
The hunger of his soul stared out of his eyes.