After a moment of indecision, during which Dolly, rosy with excitement,
was hurriedly rearranging her disordered apparel, Charles-Norton, picking
up the lamp, strode to the door and opened it. His lips were unable to
hold a short exclamation of surprise. For, framed in the door-way, here
stood the mysterious stranger whom twice he had caught watching him in
the meadow.
He stood there, very tall, soft hat in hand, his white hair and cavalier
mustachios shining softly in the rays of the lamp, the fringes of his
buckskin garments all aglitter with the cold; above his right shoulder
there peered affectionately the white face of his horse, the vague loom
of whom could be divined behind in the night. He placed his right foot
upon the lintel, and to the movement his long spur tinkled in a single
silver note. "May I come in?" he asked gravely.
"Why, yes; why, yes," exclaimed Charles-Norton, recovering from his
momentary petrifaction; "come in, make yourself at home, have a chair,
have a seat!"
"Back!" said the man, over his shoulder, and to the command the
inquisitive nose of the white horse receded in the darkness. The man shut
the door, behind which, immediately, a philosophical munching of bit
began to sound. He walked across the room with a low bow which caused the
wide brim of his hat to sweep the floor; and to Charles-Norton's
invitation sat himself on the bench by the fireplace. Dolly perched
herself on the side of her bunk, Charles-Norton on his. They formed thus
a triangle, of which the stranger was the apex. Dolly's face was flushed,
her eyes were bright, but she kept them carefully averted from the
gleaming visitor. Charles-Norton, on the contrary, stared at him frankly.
A reminiscence was coming slowly, like a light, into his brain.
"I've seen you before," he said. "Twice I've seen you with your horse,
here, among the rocks."
"Did you see me?" said the man, with a smile.
"I couldn't place you then. But now I know. I know who you are. You're
Bison Billiam, aren't you; Bison Billiam, the great scout."
"So I am popularly known," said the man, with a bow.
"I remember you. It's ten, twelve years ago. You came out of a lot of
cardboard scenery at the end of the hall, hunting buffaloes. The calcium
light was on you, and you looked like this----"
Here Charles-Norton placed his right hand above his eyes in most approved
scouting style, and peered to right and left. "Humph," said Bison
Billiam, seemingly not altogether delighted with this representation.
"And you saw the buffalo--three of them--father and mother and son, I
guess--standing in the center of the arena. You galloped right into them,
and emptied the magazine of your Winchester into them--but they wouldn't
run. They knew you too well, I suppose."
"I suppose," agreed Bison Billiam. "The buffaloes I've hunted in the last
twenty years have known me pretty well. It was not so once," he said
reminiscently; "not so, not so----"
There was a little silence at this evocation of the melancholy of gone
days. The fire crackled. It was Bison Billiam who spoke first. "I've been
watching you fly," he said.
"Yes?" exclaimed Charles-Norton, flushing with pleasure and doubt.
"I have a permanent show in New York now," went on Bison Billiam.
"Yes?" said Charles-Norton.
"I want you to fly there," said Bison Billiam.
"Yes?" said Charles-Norton.
"I'll give you four hundred a week."
Charles-Norton fell backward into his bunk, his legs swaying
perpendicularly in the air like two derricks gone amuck. From the depths
of his involuntary position he heard the silvery pealing of Dolly's
laughter. When he rose again though, Dolly had ceased laughing, and Bison
Billiam's face had a gravity which somehow vaguely impressed
Charles-Norton as without solidity, like fresh varnish. The two looked as
though they had been gazing at each other, but their eyes now were
carefully averted.
"I didn't understand," said Charles-Norton, with dignity, and
surreptitiously took a firm hold of the edge of the bunk.
"The matter is simply this," said Bison Billiam. "I have a permanent Wild
West show in New York. I want a new feature for it. You are it. I'll give
you three hundred a----"
"Four hundred; you said four hundred!" exclaimed Dolly.
He turned to her with a bow which held homage. "Four hundred," he
corrected.
"What will I have to do?" asked Charles-Norton, still somewhat dazed.
"Just fly. Fly every night, and at the matinees, Wednesdays and
Saturdays. The police will stand for it, I think--except on Sundays. But
we'll settle the details later. Meanwhile, here's the contract." He
fumbled in the inside of his buckskin jacket and drew out a typewritten
document.
Charles-Norton stood long over the contract, spread out on the table. He
pretended to read it, but was too agitated to do so. The little purple
characters danced in the glow of the lamp. Upon his right shoulder he
could feel Dolly's chin; it rested there tenderly, with wistfulness, in
prayer. Mixed with his excitement was a vague sadness, a sadness,
somehow, as though he were saying farewell to someone. But he had
already gone through the crisis; to Dolly's heart-rending cry upon the
dietary inadequacy of pine-nuts, he had yielded his whole being in
supreme sacrifice. An exultation possessed him at the thought, a madness
of self-gift. He straightened to his full height; "I'll sign!" he cried
with ringing accent.
He felt Dolly turn about him; she laid her head upon his breast. "Sh-sh,
sh-sh," he whispered, patting her; "it's all right, Dolly." He raised his
head once more. "I'll sign!" he declared again loudly.
"Well, I should say so," murmured Bison Billiam, a bit amazed at all this
ceremony. Out of the holster which hung on his belt, he drew a
fountain-pen, which lay snugly by the silver-mounted revolver. And
Charles-Norton, his left arm about Dolly, with his right hand signed
firmly the contract.
"I'll be back in the morning," said Bison Billiam as he mounted his
horse. "You'll give me an exhibition, and we'll settle on your stunt and
on the size of your machine--your----"
But his last word flew away with him in the night. Charles-Norton closed
the door. There was a little silence. "What did he mean?" asked
Charles-Norton; "what did he mean by the size, the size of----"
"Oh, I don't know," said Dolly. "Goosie, you are a dear; a darling,
Goosie. Goosie----"
"That's all right, little girl," said Charles-Norton with large
magnanimity; "glad to do it for you." And then, nudging Dolly with his
elbow, "four hundred a week, Dolly; four hundred! Gee!" he cried.
The practical side of Charles-Norton seemed at last awakened; he danced
around the table in glee. But Dolly, singularly, did not join in.
The next morning, bright and early, Dolly and Charles-Norton heard a
haloo outside and, emerging, found Bison Billiam erect upon his
motionless horse in the center of the snow-covered meadow. "You've had
breakfast?" he asked pleasantly.
"Well--yes," said Dolly; "just got through," said the little liar (there
wasn't anything within the cabin to breakfast upon).
"We'll begin right away, then," said Bison Billiam. "We leave at noon."
He dismounted, and Dolly and he seated themselves side by side, with
backs against the cabin, while Charles-Norton gave them an exhibition.
He winged off first directly for the crest gleaming high in the distance,
making his line straight and swift; then returned in a perfect curve that
spanned the distance like a rainbow. Remaining above the meadow, now, he
drew all his fantasies against the sky and finally, rising high till he
was a mere dot in the heavens, he shot down like a white thunderbolt and
landed at their feet in snowy explosion of extended wings.
He found Bison Billiam and Dolly conferring earnestly. "Two feet, I
think," Bison Billiam said. Dolly ran into the cabin and returned with a
pair of glittering scissors.
"What are you going to do?" asked Charles-Norton, suddenly cold and
distrustful.
"Cut off two feet," said Dolly, laughingly. "Mr. Billiam says to cut off
two feet."
"Off my wings?" yelped Charles-Norton; "off my wings?"
Dolly turned her eyes to Bison Billiam in doubt, in appeal. "It's in the
contract, young man," said Bison Billiam. "Haven't you read the contract?"
he said, drawing the document from his jacket.
"No, I haven't," said Charles-Norton, shortly. "Let me see it."
And he read, beneath Bison Billiam's pointing finger: "It shall be
regarded as a part of this agreement that the length of the flying
apparatus, whatsoever it may be, shall be determined by the party of the
first part."
"I won't!" thundered Charles-Norton.
"Goosie, dear," implored Dolly; "Goosie, dear, only two feet, and it's in
the contract, Goosie, dear----"
He turned upon her fiercely. "Why can't you eat pine-nuts?" he cried;
"why, why, why?"
She drew back a step and looked at him with great large eyes, and as he
met them, he saw them fill slowly with tears. "I can't," she said simply;
"I can't, Goosie." Again Charles-Norton had that sensation of a wreath
falling about his neck, a heavy wreath within the soft flowers of which
was hidden a good stout chain. "All right; go ahead," he said, with a
sigh.
Dolly, with the firmness of a surgeon inexorably sure of what is best
for his patient, curtailed the "flying apparatus" to the required length.
"Now, let's see you," said Bison Billiam.
And Charles-Norton repeated his performance, more heavily this time, in
smaller compass. But when he descended, again he was met by Bison
Billiam's disapproving head-shake. "We'll have to take off another foot,"
said Bison Billiam.
"But why?" remonstrated Charles-Norton (with the first cut there had
already come to him a certain lassitude, an indifference, almost, which
made him much more tractable). "Why do you want my wings short?" (also he
was conscious of a feeling of aspiration amidships, of aspiration for
something else than pine-nuts). "Don't you want me to fly well? What the
deuce is the matter?"
"It won't do; it won't do at all," said Bison Billiam, in a tone almost
of discouragement. "Can't you _see_ it won't do?" he went on impatiently.
"It's too smooth; there's no effort in it. Lord, you do it as though it
were _easy_! And there's no _danger_ in it, man! Lord, I sit here and
watch you without batting an eye-lid; feeling sure you can't fall. That's
not what I want. I want the audience to get excited, to palpitate! I
don't want them to sit there like lambs watching a cloud, or a bird
flying. Your act isn't worth two-bits a week. I want men to groan,
children to scream, women to faint! Lop 'em off!"
Again Charles-Norton submitted himself to Dolly's gentle fingers and cold
scissors, and repeated his act with shortened wings. This happened three
times. Three times the scissors zipped, down eddied to the ground, and
Charles-Norton tried again, more heavily, more soddenly, his being
invaded by the emptiness of the old days, the shorn days.
At the end of the third flight, Bison Billiam remained silent a long
time, evidently the prey of a heavy discouragement. Suddenly the light of
inspiration sprang to his brow; his voice rang clear in the glade. "Cut
six inches off the left wing," he cried, "and leave the right as it is.
Shear the left and leave the right as it is!"
Charles-Norton gazed at him open-mouthed. But by this time there was
little left in him strong enough for rebellion. He closed his mouth
again. Dolly interceded with a glance of her soft eyes, but Bison
Billiam was aglow with his idea. "Cut!" he cried.
Dolly cut.
This time the result was eminently satisfactory. With great effort, with
cracking sinew and sweating brow, Charles-Norton managed to circle the
meadow once with heavy, awkward flapping. His neck was awry with the
uneven pressure, his fine body was twisted; he almost struck the ground
between each stroke, and as he was passing his audience on the beginning
of a second lap, he lost control suddenly, turned clear over, and flopped
to earth at their feet.
Bison Billiam could not restrain his enthusiasm now. He clapped his
hands, he skipped about like a child. "Fine; fine!" he cried, and his
deep voice rang clear to the crest; "that's the stuff; now we've got it!
By Jove," he swore, his satisfaction rising to delirium, "I'll give you
four hundred _and fifty_ a week!"
They left immediately, Charles-Norton dressing, for the first time in many
days, in his city suit of clothes. The wings, even though--rectified,
bulged the coat, but this was hidden by the cape of his mackintosh, which
Dolly, providentially, had brought with her from the city. They wended
their way back along the trail to the camp, Charles-Norton bronzed like a
farmer, choking in his white collar, Dolly very pretty in her tailor
suit, her furs, and her toque, Bison Billiam resplendent on his white
horse; and before them Nicodemus trotted demurely, a dress-suit case in
each saddle-bag, another slung atop. They left him at the camp, grazing
philosophically on his old dump. Charles-Norton gave him an affectionate
farewell slap, Dolly kissed him on the nose, and they then climbed aboard
the shining private-car which stood ready for them on the siding. One end
of the private-car was a luxurious stable, in which the white horse
climbed along a cleated gang-way. A half-hour later the passing Overland
train picked up the car, and slowly clicking along the summit, they saw,
between two snow-sheds, the little meadow, its lake, and its cabin, pass
by, out of their vision, out of their lives.
Charles-Norton took off his coat, which felt very tight. A private-car
had a freedom, and comforts, which a public-car has not; a faint
appreciation of this fact came to Charles-Norton as he settled back,
coatless, in his upholstered chair, and with it the first vague snuggle
of readjustment. This feeling became clearer after the dainty breakfast
served by Bison Billiam's white-capped cook, and expressed itself in a
sigh almost of content when Bison Billiam, with the coffee, passed him a
great fat cigar. Charles-Norton threw a surreptitious glance at the heavy
band; it was a dollar cigar.
Life, after all, has its compensations.