It was fully half a mile to Livingston's house. The trail showed plainly
in the moonlight, winding in ghostly fashion through thick underbrush,
and crossed in several places by a small mountain stream through which
the horse plunged, splashing the girl plentifully. She had an impression
that she ought to go back to the corral and discover just what mischief
had been done, but shivered at the thought of hunting for dead men in
the darkness. A feeling of weird uneasiness crept over her. She wished
that she had brought the breed boys with her, though realizing that the
proper thing had been done in sending them home in order that their
secret might be safe, and so prevent more evil. She knew that she would
find men at the house who could take lanterns and go to the scene of
the trouble. The past half hour seemed remote and unreal, yet the
picture of it passed through her brain again and again before she
reached the house. She could hear the first shot, so startling and
unexpected, and the man's terrible groans rang in her ears until she
cried out as if to drive them from her. Was he dead? she wondered.
Perhaps he lay there wounded and helpless! Was it Livingston? If it
should be! She thought that she should be there, groping over the bloody
ground for him. She shook as with a chill. How helpless she was, after
all--a veritable coward, for she must go on to the house for assistance!
She slipped from her horse at some distance, and walked toward the ray
of light that came from a side window. Her knees were weak, she felt
faint and wearied. At the house her courage failed, she sank limply
beside the window, and looked into the lighted room beyond. He was not
there! One man was reading a newspaper while another sat on an end of
the table playing a mouth harp.
In her mind she could see the body of Livingston in the corral,
trampled upon and mangled by a multitude of frightened sheep. She
stifled a cry of horror. Why had she not gone there at once? For no
reason except the hope in her heart that it might not have been him who
had been shot--that she might find him at the house. But he was not
there! Then it must have been he; his groans she had heard--that still
sounded in her ears. He had brown hair that waved softly from a brow
broad and white. His face was boyish and sad in repose. She could see it
now as she had seen it by the spring, and his eyes were gray and tender.
She had noticed them this day. What was she doing there by the window?
Perhaps after all he was not dead, but suffering terribly while she
lingered!
She rose quickly with new courage. As she turned a hand touched her on
the shoulder, and she fell back weak against the house.
"I beg your pardon! I did not know--could scarcely believe that it was
you--Miss--Hathaway! Won't you come into the house?"
"_You!_" she cried as in a dream. "_Where_ have you been?"
His tone, quiet, polite, hid the surprise that her question caused.
"I've been back there in the hills hunting chickens. You see I have been
fortunate enough to get some. I followed them a great distance, and
night overtook me up there so suddenly that I've had some difficulty in
finding my way back. Now may I ask to what I owe the honor of
this--visit?"
All fear and weakness had gone. She stood erect before him, her head
thrown back from her shoulders, her position, as it must appear to him,
driving all else from her mind.
"In other words, you want to know why I was peeking into your window at
this time of the day!"
"Just so, if you put it that way. At least I should be pleased to know
the nature of your visit." He threw the prairie chickens down beside the
house, watching meanwhile the girl's erect figure. The soft, quiet
grace he had seen at the spring had given place to something
different--greater.
"Not a very dignified position in which to be caught--and I do not like
you any better for having caught me so!" she finally flashed back at
him. "I have no apologies to offer you, and wouldn't offer one,
anyway--under the circumstances. I'll tell you what brought me here,
though. While passing by your corral, down the road, I heard a great
commotion, and some shooting, so I came over here to tell you. Perhaps I
was afraid to pass the corral after that." She smiled wickedly, but he,
innocently believing, exclaimed:
"Why were you alone? Where were the boys that I saw with you this
morning? It isn't right that you should be out alone after night like
this."
"They went on--ahead of me. I rode slowly," she replied hesitatingly. He
did not notice her nervous manner of speech.
"They ought to have stayed with you," he declared. "You should never
ride alone, particularly after dark. Don't do it again."
"But the shooting," she interrupted. "I came to tell you about it.
Someone may have been hurt."
"It was kind of you to come. There may be trouble of some sort. I heard
shooting, too, but thought it must be down at Harris'. There is very
often a commotion down there, and sometimes the air carries sound very
clearly. You are sure it was at the corrals?"
She became impatient. "Positively! I not only heard the shots plainly,
but saw men ride away. Please lose no more time, but get your men and a
lantern, and come on. There's evidently been trouble down there, Mr.
Livingston, and your herder may have been hurt. They are not all good
people in these mountains, by any means."
"Is that so? I had not discovered it. Probably some of them thought they
would like mutton for their Sunday dinner. It seemed to me there was
considerable firing, though. You are perfectly sure it was at the
corrals?"
"That was my impression, Mr. Livingston," she replied briefly.
His face suddenly became anxious. "They may have hurt Fritz. If anything
has happened to that boy there will be something to pay! But unless
something occurred to delay the sheep they should have been put in
before dark. I will go at once. Will you come in the house and stay
until my return? It might not be safe for a lady down there."
"No!" Then, less fiercely: "Have your men bring their guns and hurry up!
I'm going along with you;" adding: "It's on my way back."
She waited outside while Livingston informed his men, who secured
rifles, and started at once for the corrals; then leading her horse she
walked on ahead with him, followed closely by the two men, who carried
lanterns, which they decided not to light until they reached the sheep.
Hope never could define her feelings when she found Livingston safe and
unhurt, though she made a careless attempt at doing so that night, and
afterwards. She walked beside him in absolute silence. They were going
to see if the herder had been injured in any way. She knew that he was
not only hurt, but in all likelihood fatally so. His groans rang
continually in her ears, yet it brought her not the least pain, only a
horror, such as she had experienced when it happened. It was a relief to
her that it had not been Livingston. She felt sorry, naturally, that a
man had been shot, but what did it matter to her--one man more or less?
She had never known him.
When they reached the sheep-corrals the moon still shone brightly, and
Hope was filled with a new fear lest some of the ruffians had remained
behind, and would pick off Livingston. After the lanterns were lighted
she felt still more nervous for his safety, and could not restrain her
foolish concern until she had mounted her horse, and made a complete
circuit of the corrals, riding into every patch of brush about; then
only did this fear, which was such a stranger to her, depart. She rode
in haste back to the corrals, satisfied that the men had all left,
probably badly frightened.
To one side of the paneled enclosure the men held their lanterns over
an inert figure stretched upon the ground. Livingston was kneeling
beside it. The girl got down from her horse, and came near them.
"Is he dead?" she asked.
"_Dead_--yes! The poor boy! May God have mercy on the brute who
committed this crime! It is terrible--_terrible!_ Poor faithful Fritz!
Scarcely more than a boy, yet possessing a man's courage and a man's
heart!" He looked up at the girl's face, and was amazed at her
indifference. Then he spoke to the men: "Go back and get a wagon and my
saddle horse. I will stay here until you return. Leave one of the
lanterns."
They hurried away, while the man continued to kneel by the side of the
dead herder. Hope watched him, wondering at his depth of feeling.
Finally she asked: "Was he some relative of yours?"
"No, only one of my herders--Fritz, a bright, good German boy. Why did
you ask, Miss Hathaway?"
"I thought because you cared so much,--seemed to feel so badly,--that
he must be very near to you."
"He is near to me," he replied, "only as all children of earth should be
near to one another. Are you not also pained at this sight--this boy, in
the very beginning of his manhood, lying here dead?"
"Not _pained_--I can't truthfully say that I am pained--or care much in
that way. He is dead, so what is the use of caring or worrying about it.
That cannot bring him back to life again. Of course I would rather he
had lived--that this had never happened, yet I do not feel pain, only an
abhorrence. I couldn't touch him as you are doing, not for anything!"
"And you are not pained! _You_, a woman with a white soul and a clean
heart--one of God's choicest creations--_you_ stand there without a pang
of sorrow--dry-eyed. Haven't you a heart, girl?" He rose to his feet,
holding up the lantern until it shone squarely in her face. "Look at him
lying there! See the blood upon his clothes--the look on his face! What
he suffered! See what he holds so tightly in his hand,--his last
thought,--a letter from his sweetheart over in Germany, the girl he was
to have married, who is even now on her way to him. He had been reading
her letter all day. It came this morning, and he held it in his hand
planning their future with a happy heart, when some brute sent a bullet
here. If it could have been me, how gladly I would make the exchange,
for I have nothing that this poor boy possessed--mother, sweetheart--no
one. Yet _you_, a girl, can see him so, unmoved! Good God, what are you,
_stone_? See his face, he did not die at once, and suffering, _dying_,
still held that letter. If not his story, then does not his suffering
appeal to you? His dying groans, can you not hear them?"
"Stop!" she cried, backing away from him until she leaned against her
horse for support. "Stop! How _dare_ you talk like that to me! His
_groans_----" She sobbed wildly, her face buried in her saddle, which
she clutched.
He came close beside her, touching her lightly, wondering. "I am so
sorry, forgive me! I did not realize what I was doing. I did not wish
to frighten you, believe me!"
The sobs were hushed instantly. She raised her head, and looked at him,
still dry-eyed.
"You were right," she said. "I do not even now _feel_ for him--perhaps
some for the little girl now on her way to him; but it is all unreal. I
have seen men dead like this before, and I could not feel anything but
horror--no sorrow. I am as I am. It makes no difference what you
say,--what anyone says,--I cannot change. I am not tender--only please
do not terrify me again!"
"I was a brute!" he exclaimed, then left her and returned to the dead
man's side.
The girl stood for some time quietly beside her horse, then began to
loosen the cinch. Livingston watched her wonderingly as she drew out the
blanket, and secured the saddle once more into place. He did not realize
her motive until she stood beside him, holding in her hand the gayly
colored saddle blanket. Kneeling opposite him, beside the body of the
boy, she tenderly lifted the long hair from his forehead, spread over
his face a white handkerchief, then stood up and unfolded the blanket,
covering the rigid form with it.
"You have a heart!" exclaimed Livingston softly. "You are thinking of
him tenderly, as a sister might, and of his sweetheart coming over the
water to him!"
"No, not of that at all," said the girl simply, "nor of him, as you
think; but of one who might be lying here in his place--one who has no
sweetheart, near or far away, to cover him with the mantle of her
love."