Katherine was looking out the window at the storm-swept canyon. Juan had
ridden to the San Pedro that morning. He figured that he might work up a
trade of two unbroken colts for a gentle workhorse. Then when he was
compelled to make a trip to town with the team, Katherine could use her
own pony, Fox, to care for the cattle on the range.
As the fury of the storm increased, she closed the heavy shutters to
protect the glass windows from the branches that were broken and flung
violently against the little house. The storm on the outside seemed
emblematic of her life. Yet she remembered that it would pass and the
sun creep gently into the places where the bruised things had been
beaten down, and by degrees the beauty would be restored.
Lighting the lamp, she seated herself at the table and drew a letter
toward her. In the stress of events following her husband's illness and
Paddy's subsequent murder, the publication of her verses had passed from
her memory. Many months had elapsed before Katherine happened to pick up
the magazine in which her poem was printed. Like a seed that had lain
dormant, waiting the proper season to germinate, rose an impulse to tell
the thoughts that surged within her. In this mood she had written a
story of the little ranch in the lonely canyon, and the things that made
life for the woman living there with the old Mexican, the dog and the
mountains.
Hesitatingly, she had sent the story to a magazine; it had been accepted
and the editor had written a pleasant note to her, asking for more of
her work. The letter opened a world of possibilities. Not that she
dreamed of leaping into fame and fortune as a writer; but because it
gave her empty life an object. In grasping at a straw, she had found a
friendly hand that dragged her from the black waves of despair and
pointed a beacon light, encouraging her to struggle on. The way was no
longer lonely; it was peopled by unknown friends with whom she could
share thoughts which had been suppressed for years.
The legacy received from her aunt would amply provide for Donnie's
education until he was able to assist himself; she could remain on the
ranch with old Juan, caring for the remnant of the Circle Cross herd,
which would furnish what they needed, with the help of the garden-patch,
chickens and a cow. If she could sell a few stories, Donnie could spend
his summer vacations with her.
"Ten years," she thought, ashamed of the knowledge that it meant peace
unspeakable. "Ten years--and then?"
Forcing the thought from her, she took the second letter from its
envelope. It was from Glendon's father, reiterating his offer to take
the boy and educate him. The tone of the letter was the same as the
first one he had written his son about Donnie. It was a grim, hard
letter. Katherine, reading between the lines, felt no resentment; she
realized the old man's keen disappointment in his only son, and her
heart cried out in sympathy.
So she wrote, thanking her husband's father explaining courteously about
the legacy providing for the boy's education, and stating that she would
remain at the ranch until such time as her husband returned to it.
Having sealed the letter, she sat idly listening to the storm, when a
knock on the door startled her. She thought there was no one in the
neighbourhood except herself and old Chappo at the Hot Springs ranch,
and she wondered what could have brought him out in such a night. A
second knock sounded before she opened the door, holding it with
difficulty against the wind, her eyes blinded by the darkness of the
night, and the rain beating across the threshold.
"Is that you, Chappo?" she called above the noise of the storm.
"Katherine!"
Her eyes became tragic and her face white as Powell entered the room.
"You?" she whispered doubtingly and yet with a little thrill of gladness
in her voice.
He grasped her cold hands, looking eagerly into her face.
"You poor child!" Only three words, but they seemed to cover her with
warmth and protection. Then she remembered, and drawing her hands from
his, sank trembling into a chair, while Powell stood by her side. A
great happiness illumined his face, for he had caught the look in her
eyes and had heard the note in her voice.
"I tried to stay away," he said at last. "I thought I could blot you out
of my life, but I could not. I was in New York when Limber's letter
reached me, telling about the hold-up, trial and conviction. I took the
first train home. If the letter had been a day later, I should have been
on my way to Europe. You will never know what it meant, picturing you
alone here with this new trouble to bear."
"Don't!" pleaded Katherine. "Do you realize what has happened?"
"I know that the law has taken it course justly," replied Powell.
"Glendon's conviction is sufficient to justify your appeal for a
divorce. No further sacrifice is necessary on your part. Surely you will
not hesitate, now?"
"He has no one else," she answered slowly, "Therefore my obligation is
the heavier."
"No obligation is due a man like him. He has heaped indignity and
suffering on you and Donnie. You cannot point one redeeming trait in his
character."
"He is my husband. Only death can cancel that obligation."
"He is a curse to humanity," Powell's voice vibrated with emotion. "Even
should you remain here until he serves his time, it will a mean a more
hideous life after he returns. Either Donnie will succumb to his
father's influence, and you will have two brutes to cope with, or the
boy will hate his father, and someday Glendon will kill Donnie or Donnie
will kill his father. You have no right to force such a situation on the
boy, to face such a future for yourself."
Katherine stood before him, her hands tightly locked together to control
the trembling, she did not answer, but the look in her eyes told that
she realized the truth of his words. Powell was overcome with
compunction and tenderness. His hands were laid gently on hers.
"Please forgive me," he begged. "It maddens me to see you in such
trouble and know I am powerless to help you. The only gift I crave of
life is the privilege to serve and protect you and Donnie."
She lifted her eyes to the hands that were reaching out to her, then her
gaze rested on his face.
"Can you understand," she said, "how a hungry beggar feels outside in
the storm and cold, looking into a warm room where a banquet of rich
food and wine is spread before his eyes? I am starving for a crumb of
your love; yet I must turn away hungry."
He started toward her with a cry of joy, but she moved farther from him.
"Do you think I would have told you, if I had not believed I had the
strength to turn away?" she asked in a dull voice. "It is my atonement.
I tried so hard to be true to him, in spite of everything; but at night
you came to me in my dreams, and I lived in another world, till dawn
brought me back here again. Oh, why does God let us make such terrible
mistakes when He knows we have only one little life to live? I am
tired--so tired of struggling!"
Powell knew that it was her moment of weakness, and the temptation was
strong upon him to urge her; but he also knew that no happiness would be
lasting unless she came to him without a shadow of the past falling
across their lives.
"You are right, Katherine," he said, gravely. "I shall not worry you any
more. All I ask is that you will remember I am waiting, to help you when
you need me." He lifted her hand to his lips and then she watched him
pass out into the storm.