Donna sat there until sunrise, rocking back and forth, striving to weave
an orderly pattern of reason out of the tangle of unreason in which she
found herself when, confronted by that look in Bob McGraw's brown eyes.
She failed. She could not think calmly. She was conscious of but one
supreme emotion as she gazed at this man who had ridden into her life,
gun in hand. She was happy. Heretofore her life had been quiet,
even, unemotional, always the same--and now she was happy, riotously,
deliriously happy; and it did not occur to her that Bob McGraw might
die. She willed that he should live, for life was love, and love--what
was love? Something that surged, a wave of exquisite tenderness, through
Donna's lonely heart, something that throbbed in the untouched recesses
of her womanhood, arousing in her a fierce, almost primitive desire to
possess this man, to fondle his auburn head, to caress him, to work for
him, slave for him, to show her gratitude and adoration by living for
him, and--if need be--by dying for him!
It occurred to her presently that there was nothing so very unmaidenly
in her action, after all. She felt no distinct loss of womanly
reserve--no crumbling of the foundations of dignity. She still had those
attributes; to-morrow, when she returned to the cashier's counter at the
eating-house, she would still have these defensive weapons against the
invasions of the sensual, smirking, patronizing male brutes with
which every passing train appeared to be filled; the well-dressed,
hard-finished city men, who held her cheap because she presided behind
an eating-house cash-register. How well she knew their quick, bold
stares, their so clumsy subterfuges to enter into conversation with her;
and how different was Bob McGraw to such as they!
Here at last was the reason, unseen and unrecognized at first,
manifesting itself merely in the spontaneous and unconscious shattering
of her maidenly reserve, but distinctly visible now. It was not that Bob
McGraw had come to her out of the desert at a time when she needed him
most; it was not that he came in all the bravery and generous sacrifice
of youth, shedding his blood that she might not shed tears; it was not
the service he had rendered her that made her love him, for San Pasqual
was “long” on mere animal courage. It was the adoration that gleamed in
his eyes--an adoring stare, revealing respect behind his love--that one
quality without which love is a dead and withered thing.
She knew him now--the man he was. She saw the priceless pearl of
character he possessed. Bob McGraw was a wild, reckless, unthinking,
impulsive fellow, perhaps, but for all that he was the sort of man at
whose feet women, both good and bad, have laid their hearts since the
world began. He was kind. Harley P. Hennage was right. Bob McGraw was
a Desert Rat. But a Desert Rat lives close to the great heart of Mother
Nature, and his own heart is clean.
The dawn-light came filtering across the desert and lit up the room
where she sat. She turned to the bed and saw that Bob McGraw was
watching her again, and on his face was that little, cheerful, mocking,
inscrutable smile.
Again Donna found herself powerless to resist the appeal in the man's
eyes. She was crying a little as she slipped to her knees beside the bed
and laid her cheek against his.
“I can't help it” she whispered. “I seem to have loved you always, and
oh, Bob, dear, you'll be very, very good to me, won't you? You must be
brave and try to get well, for both our sakes. We need each other so.”
Bob McGraw did not answer readily. He was too busy thanking God for the
great gift of perfect understanding. Moreover, he had a perforated lung
and a heart whose duties had suddenly been increased a thousand-fold,
if it was to hold inviolate this sacred joy of possession which thrilled
him now. He was alert and conscious, despite the shock of his wound, and
the reserve strength in his six feet of splendid manhood was coming to
his aid. When he could trust himself to speak, he said:
“You're a very wonderful woman.”
“But you were laughing at me--a little.”
“Not at you, at Fate--the great, big, bugaboo Fate.”
“Why?”
“Because I--can afford to. My luck's--turned.”
“You dear, big, red-headed philosopher.”
“And you--didn't you save my hat?”
“No, dear. Don't worry over such a trifle as a hat. I'll give you a--”
“But this was--a--good hat” he complained. “I paid twenty dollars--”
“Never mind your old hat. Don't talk. I'm selfish. I want to listen to
you, but for all that, you must be quiet.”
He sighed. Forget all about that big, wide sombrero--genuine
beaver--that cost him twenty dollars only a week ago? His horse, his
saddle, his hat, his spurs, his gun--he was particular about these
possessions, for in his way Mr. McGraw was something of a frontier
dandy. His calm contempt of life and death amused Donna when she
compared it with his boyish concern for his dashing equipment. Hats,
indeed! Worrying over a lost hat while a guest at the Hat Ranch! If Bob
McGraw could only have understood Donna Corblay's contempt for hats he
would never have mentioned the matter twice.
She gauged the size of his red head with the practiced eye of one who
has sold many hats.
“Seven and a quarter” she mused fondly. “Wouldn't he look splendid in
that big new Stetson that blew in the day before yesterday! You great
big man-baby. I'll save that one for you.”
And having decided this momentous question of hats, she kissed him
and went out to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Doctor Taylor and
Harley P. Hennage.
After having breakfasted at the Hat Ranch, Harley P. Hennage helped
himself to Bob McGraw's automatic gun, reloaded it and walked back to
San Pasqual. He had never carried a gun before, but something seemed to
tell him that he might need one to-day. Borax O'Rourke generally carried
one and if Borax had talked, Mr. Hennage meant to chastise him. In
consequence of which decision, Mr. Hennage, like a good gambler, decided
to fill his hand and not be caught bluffing.
Arrived outside the Silver Dollar, Harley P. immediately found himself
greatly in demand. Borax O'Rourke, having told all he knew, which was
little enough, and aching to supply further details, was the first man
to accost him.
“Well, Hennage,” he began, “what's the latest? Any more kissin' goin'
on?”
Mr. Hennage's baleful eyes scouted the mule-skinner's person
for evidence of hardware. Observing none, he said fiercely “You
mutton-headed duffer!” and for the first time within the memory of the
citizens of San Pasqual he had recourse to his hands. He clasped Mr.
O'Rourke fondly around the neck and choked him until his eyes threatened
to pop out, the while he shook O'Rourke as a terrier shakes a rat. Then,
after two prodigious parting kicks, accurately gauged and delivered,
the gambler crossed over to the hotel, leaving the garrulous one to
pick himself out of the dust, gasping like a chicken with the pip. It is
worthy of remark that the discomfiture of Borax O'Rourke was observed
by Mrs. Daniel Pennycook, who having noted from afar the approach of Mr.
Hennage, had endeavored to intercept him first. Judging from his hasty
action that the gambler was not in that state of mind most propitious
to the dissemination of the information which she sought, Mrs. Pennycook
decided to bide her time and returned to her cottage and her neglected
housework.
Mr. Hennage went at once to his room, where he lay down and went to
sleep. Late in the afternoon he was awakened by a knocking at his door.
He sprang out of bed and unlocked the door, and Dan Pennycook came into
the room.
“Hello, Dan” the gambler greeted him. “You look worried.”
“You would too, if you knew what I know” replied Pennycook. He sat down.
“Harley, old man, you've laid violent hands on a mighty hard character.”
“Well,” retorted the gambler, “ain't that the kind to lay violent hands
on? You wouldn't expect me to choke old Judge Kenny, or that little Jap
laundryman, would you?”
“But O'Rourke is dangerous. He's got two guns reachin' down to his hocks
an' he's tellin' everybody he'll get you on sight.”
“Barkin' dogs never bite, Dan. However, I wish you'd carry a message for
me. Will you?”
“Who to?”
“The dangerous Mr. O'Rourke. Tell him from me he'd better go back to the
borax works at Keeler, where he got his nickname, an' take up his old
job o' skinnin' mules. Tell him I'll loan him that roan pony in the
corral, an' he can saddle up an' git. Tell him to send the little horse
back with the stage-driver. I want him to ride out tonight, Dan. Tell
him it's an order.”
Pennycook nodded. “If I was you, though, Harley, I'd heel myself.”
The gambler opened a bureau drawer and brought forth McGraw's automatic
pistol. He smiled brightly.
“No use givin' orders unless a feller can back 'em up, Dan” he said.
“Thanks for the hint, though. Of course you'll tell Borax privately. No
use arousin' his pride lettin' the whole town know he had to go. He's
a rat, but a rat'll fight when he's cornered--an' I don't want to kill
him.”
“I will” replied Mr. Pennycook. “I'd hate to see any more trouble in
this town.”
“Thank you, Dan.”
“Donna all right?”
“Yes.”
“Who's the feller that interfered?”
“Stranger ridin' through.”
“Hard hit?”
“Right lung. He'll pull through.”
“Hope so” responded the amiable yardmaster, and left. Mr. Hennage got
back into bed and pulled the sheet over him again. But it was too hot
to sleep, so he lay there, rubbing his chin and thinking. Late in
the afternoon he heard the sound of a horse loping through the street
beneath his window. He sprang up and looked out, just in time to see
Borax O'Rourke riding out of town on Bob McGraw's roan bronco.
Mr. Hennage permitted himself a quiet little smile. “Now there goes the
star witness for the prosecution” he mused. “But I'll stay an' tell 'em
Borax was mistaken. I guess, even if I ain't a gentleman, I can lie like
one.”
He bathed and dressed and started over to the post-office--not because
he expected any mail, for he did not. No one ever wrote to Mr. Hennage.
But he had seen Mrs. Pennycook dodging into the post-office, and it was
his intention to have a quiet little conversation with the lady.
When he arrived at the post-office, however, Mrs. Pennycook was not in
sight. Mr. Hennage stepped lightly inside, and at that moment he heard
Miss Molly Pickett, the postmistress, exclaim: “Well, for the land's
sake!”
“It's a fact, Miss Pickett. She kissed him!”
The voices came from the inner office, behind the tier of lock boxes.
Realizing that he was in a public place, Mr. Hennage did not feel it
incumbent upon him to announce his presence by coughing or shuffling
his feet. He remained discreetly silent, therefore, and Mrs. Pennycook's
voice resumed:
“She had him taken right down to the Hat Ranch, of all places. Of course
it wouldn't do to bring him up town, where he could be looked after.
Of course not! He might be sent to a hospital and she wouldn't have a
chance to look after him herself. I never heard of such carryings-on,
Miss Pickett. It's so scandalous like.”
Miss Pickett sighed. “Who is he?” she demanded.
“That's what nobody can find out. I told Dan to ask Harley Hennage, but
you know how stupid a man is. I don't suppose he even asked.”
“Well, all I've got to say, Mrs. Pennycook, is that Donna Corblay's
taking a mighty big interest in a man she's never even been introduced
to. Still, I'm not surprised at anything she'd do, the stuck-up thing.
She just thinks she's it, with her new hats and a different wash-dress
every week, and her high an' mighty way of looking at people. She could
have been married long ago if she wasn't so stuck-up.”
“Oh, nobody's good enough for _her_” sneered Mrs. Pennycook. “If a dook
was to ask her she wouldn't have him. She'd sooner make fools of half
the married men in town.”
“She thinks she's too good for San Pasqual” Miss Pickett supplemented.
“I suppose she imagines her grand airs make her a lady,” Mrs. Pennycook
deprecated, “but for my part, I think it shows that she's kinder vulgar
like.”
“Well, what do you think o' last night's performance?” Miss Pickett
demanded.
“I can't think, dearie” murmured Mrs. Pennycook weakly. “I'm so shocked
like. It's hard to believe. I know the girl for a sly, scheming,
hoity-toity flirt, but to think that she'd act so low like! Who told
_you_ she kissed him?”
“Borax O'Rourke.”
“He told everybody.”
“Well, then, if it's got around, public like, we can't shield her, Miss
Pickett, an' I guess it's no use trying. Water will seek its own level,
Miss Pickett. You remember her mother. Nobody ever knew a thing about
her, an' you remember the talk that used to be goin' around about
_her._”
“The tree grows as the twig is bent” Miss Pickett murmured.
“I'll say this much, though, Miss Pickett” continued Mrs. Pennycook.
“You're a woman an' so'm I, an' you know, just as well as I do, that no
man or set o' men ever looks twice at any respectable woman that goes
right along tendin' to her business. You know that, Miss Pickett. A
man's got to have _some_ encouragement.”
“Well” Miss Pickett was forced to remark. “I've been postmistress
an' assistant postmistress here for fifteen years, an' nobody's ever
insulted me, or tried to flirt with me. I can take my oath on that.”
“I believe you, Miss Pickett” interrupted Harley P. Hennage serenely.
“Even in a tough town like San Pasqual human courage has its
limitations.”
Miss Pickett flew to the delivery window and looked out. Harley P. was
looking in.
“Is that so!” sneered Miss Pickett.
“Looks like it” retorted the gambler. “You're Exhibit A to prove it,
ain't you, Miss Pickett? I hope I see you well, Mrs. Pennycook” he
added.
“So you're back, are you?” Mrs. Pennycook's voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Yes, I've been away three years, but I see time ain't softened the
tongues nor sharpened the consciences o' some of my old lady friends.
You're out late this afternoon, Mrs. P., with your scandal an' your
gossip.”
“There ain't no mail for you, Mr. Card Sharp” Miss Pickett informed him
acidly.
“I didn't call for any” the gambler replied, and eyed her sternly. She
quivered under his glance, and he turned to Mrs. Pennycook. “Would
you oblige me, Mrs. Pennycook, with a few minutes of your valuable
time--where Miss Pickett can't hear us talk? Miss Pickett, you can go
right on readin' the postal cards.”
“I'm a respectable woman--” Mrs. Pennycook began.
“Well, it ain't ketchin', I guess” he retorted. “I ain't afraid.”
“What do you want? If you've got anything to say to me, speak right out
in meeting.”
“Not here” the gambler answered. “It'll keep.”
He walked out of the post-office and waited until Mrs. Pennycook came
by.
“Mrs. Pennycook, ma'am.”
She tilted her nose and glanced at him scornfully, but did not stop.
“It's about Joe” the gambler called after her.
If he had struck her she could not have stopped more quickly. She
turned, facing him, her chin trembling.
“I thought you'd stop” he assured her. “Nothin' like shakin' the bones
of a family skeleton to bring down the mighty from their perch. Bless
you, Mrs. Pennycook, this thing o' bein' respectable must be hard on
the constitution. Havin' been low an' worthless all my life, I suppose
I can't really appreciate what it means to a respectable lady with a
angelic relative like your brother.”
The drawling words fell on the gossip like a rain of blows. Her eyelids
grew suddenly red and watery.
“It ain't a man's trick to hammer you like this, Mrs. Pennycook,” the
gambler continued, almost sadly, “but for a lady that's livin' in a
glass house, you're too fond o' chuckin' stones, an' it's got to stop.
Hereafter, if you've got somethin' to say about Donna Corblay you see
that it's somethin' nice. You gabbed about her mother when she was
alive, and the minute I saw you streakin' it over to Miss Pickett I knew
you were at it again. Now you do any more mud-slingin', Mrs. Pennycook,
and I'll tell San Pasqual about that thug of a brother o' yours. He's
out o' San Quentin.”
“But his time wasn't up, Mr. Hennage,” wailed Mrs. Pennycook. “He got
fifteen years.”
“He served half of it and was paroled.”
Mrs. Pennycook bowed her head and quivered. “Then he'll be around here
again, blackmailing poor Dan an' me out of our savings.” She commenced
to cry.
“No, he won't. I'll protect you from him, Mrs. Pennycook. I want to make
a bargain with you. Every time you hear any of the long-tongued
people in this town takin' a crack at Donna Corblay because they don't
understand her and she won't tell 'em all her business, you speak a good
word for her. Understand? And the first thing tomorrow mornin' I want
you to get out an' nail that lie that Donna Corblay kissed the feller
that saved her from them tramps last night. It's a lie, Mrs. Pennycook.
I was there, an' I know. I ordered O'Rourke out o' town for circulatin'
that yarn. Suppose this town knew your twin brother was a murderer an' a
highwayman? Would they keep still about it?”
“No” faltered Mrs. Pennycook.
“I can keep Joe away from you, I have somethin' on him. You'll never see
him again. I'll save you from gossip an' blackmail, but you've got to
take programme.”
“I will” Mrs. Pennycook promised him fervently.
“Then it's a go” said Harley P. and walked away. He returned to the
Silver Dollar saloon, smiling a little at the joke in which he had
indulged at the expense of Mrs. Pennycook. He had informed her that he
had “something on” her brother Joe, but he had neglected to inform her
what the “something” was which he had “on” brother Joe. Mr. Hennage
could see no profit in telling her that it was a blood-stained
tarpaulin, under which Mrs. Pennycook's brother reposed, quite dead,
in the back room of the stage stable, to which impromptu morgue Joseph,
with his two companions, had been borne by the committee of citizens
headed by the constable, shortly after the elimination of the trio by
Mr. Bob McGraw.
No, Mr. Hennage, while a man of firmness and resource, was not brutal.
He contrived, however, to avoid identification of the body by keeping
Dan Pennycook from attending the coroner's inquest, for he was a good
gambler and never wasted a trump.
“I never knew there was such fun at funerals” he soliloquized while
returning from the cemetery. He bit a large piece out of his “chewing”
and gazed around him. “Doggone it” he muttered, “if this ain't the worst
town in California for killin's. I never did see such a one-horse camp
with such a big potter's field. If I wasn't a inquisitive old hunks I'd
get out of such a pesky hole P. D. Q. I wouldn't a' come back in the
first place if it hadn't a' been for that Joe person. Dog-gone him!”
This was quite true. For some months Mr. Hennage had been running a
game in Bakersfield, which, at that time, was a wide open town, just
beginning to boom under the impetus of rich oil strikes. It had been
one of his diversions, outside of business hours, to walk down to the
freight yards once a week and fraternize with the railroad boys. In
this way he managed to keep track of affairs in San Pasqual. Upon
the occasion of his last trip to the freight yards he had spied Mrs.
Pennycook's brother dodging into an empty box-car. Mr. Hennage had seen
this worthy upon the occasion of his (Joe's) last visit to San Pasqual,
the object of the said visit having been imparted to him by Dan
Pennycook himself. Having no money available for the blackmailer, poor
Pennycook had come to Hennage to borrow it. Upon the occasion of the
payment of the loan, Pennycook informed Mr. Hennage joyfully that Joe
was out of the way for fifteen years and Mr. Hennage had rejoiced with
the yardmaster. Hence, when Mr. Hennage observed Joe sneak into the
box-car, he at once surmised that Joe was broke and headed for San
Pasqual to renew his fortunes. Having a warm spot in his heart for
Dan Pennycook, Mr. Hennage instantly decided to follow Joe in another
box-car, which, in brief, is the reason why he had returned to San
Pasqual.
Presently Mr. Hennage paused and glanced across the blistering half-mile
of desert, to where the sun glinted on the dun walls of the Hat Ranch.
In the middle distance a dashing girlish figure in a blue dress was
walking up the tracks.
Mr. Hennage's three gold teeth flashed like heliographs.
“This world is so full o' a number o' things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings”
he quoted, and walked across to meet her.