Tom McHale reached Chakchak, stabled his horse, made a hasty toilet,
and attacked a belated supper. While he was eating with hearty appetite
Casey and Wade strolled in.
"Did that freight come?" asked Casey.
"Nope," said McHale. "I got a tracer started after her."
"Anything doing in town?"
"Why, I reckon there was a _leetle_ excitement there for a few
minutes," said McHale. "Sort of an argument in front of Bob Shiller's."
Casey, from his knowledge of McHale, came to attention at once. "Well?"
he asked abruptly.
"Well, it was me and this here Cross," McHale explained. "I downed
him."
"In the argument?" laughed Wade, who did not comprehend. But Casey
asked quickly: "Gun?"
McHale nodded.
"You did! How'd it happen? Is he dead?"
"I miss once, but three times I'm pretty near centre," McHale replied.
"Course, I didn't wait to hold no inquest, but if he ain't forded
Jordan's tide by now he's plumb lucky; also tough. Only thing makes me
doubt it is the way he goes down. He don't come ahead on his face the
way a man does when he's plugged for keeps; but he sorter sags
backward, so he may have a chance. Still, I reckon she's a slim one."
Casey got the full story with half a dozen brief questions.
"Clear case of self-defence, isn't it, Wade?"
"Looks that way, if the evidence corroborates what he says," the lawyer
replied. "Are you sure he shot first, Tom?"
"Better put it he meant to shoot first," McHale responded. "Naturally,
I ain't standin' round waitin' for no sightin' shots. It comes close to
an even break."
"That's good enough," Wade declared. "If his actions left no doubt of
his hostile purpose in your mind you were justified in protecting
yourself."
"They sure didn't," said McHale. "He's out to down me, and I know it.
There ain't no Alphonse and Gaston stuff when he comes boilin' out,
pullin' his gun. I just sail in to get action while I got the chance."
"Exactly," said Wade. "Well, Tom, you'll be arrested, of course. If
Cross isn't dead, likely you can get bail. If he is, I'm afraid you'll
have to remain in custody till the trial. I'll defend you myself, if
you'll let me. Or maybe it would be better to get a man whose practice
is more on the criminal side. I'll get the best there is for you."
"I'm obliged," said McHale. "I'll stand a trial all right, but I ain't
figurin' on bein' arrested for a while."
"Nonsense!" said Wade. "You don't mean to resist arrest? That's
foolish."
"Oh, I dunno," said McHale. "Depends on how you look at it. I ain't
goin' to resist to speak of; I'm just lyin' low for a spell. I reckon
I'll pack old Baldy with a little outfit, Casey. 'Bout two days from
now you'll find him out by Sunk Springs if you ride that way."
"I don't get the idea."
"It's this way," McHale explained. "This Cross is one of a bad bunch.
They'll be out for my scalp. They don't want no law in this. I been
hearin' 'bout Cross and this old-timer, Dade. They're great tillikums,
and Dade is the old he-coon of the bunch. I ain't takin' a chance on
some little tin-starred deputy standin' them off. Furthermore, I figure
it ain't unlikely they'll come after me some time to-night. If it was
just you and me, Casey, we could stand the hand, and whatever hangin'
there was would come off in the smoke. But with women on the place it
wouldn't be right. So I'll just point out for a little campin' spot
somewheres, and save everybody trouble. If any of these here sheriffs
or deputies gets nosin' around, you tell 'em how it is. I'll come in
when the signs is right, and not before. Tell them not to go huntin'
me, neither, but to go ahead and get everything set for a proper trial.
I'll send word when I'll be in."
Wade chuckled. "They can't arrange a trial without somebody to try,
Tom."
"They'll have to make a stagger at it, or wait," McHale responded
seriously.
It was dusk when he headed westward, old Baldy, lightly packed,
trotting meekly at the tail of his saddle horse.
Casey, coming back from a final word with him, met Clyde strolling
toward the young orchard. He fell into step.
"Nice evening."
She regarded him quizzically. "I won't ask a single question. You
needn't be afraid."
"Did you think I meant to head off your natural curiosity? Not a bit of
it. You want to know where Tom is going at this time of night, and
why?"
"Of course I do. But I won't ask."
"You may just as well know now as later." He told her what had
happened, omitting to mention McHale's real reason for leaving the
ranch. Even in the darkness he could see the trouble in her eyes.
"You really mean it?" she questioned. "You mean that he has killed a
man?"
"Either that or shot him up pretty badly."
"I can scarcely believe it. I like McHale; he's droll, humorous, so
cheerful, so easy-going. I can't think of him as a murderer."
"Nonsense!" said Casey. "No murder about it. It was a fair gun
fight--an even break. This fellow came at Tom, shooting. He had to
protect himself."
"He could have avoided it. He had time to get on his horse and ride
away. But he waited."
"He did right," said Casey. "This man would have shot him on sight. It
was best to settle it then and there."
"That may be so," she admitted, "but life is a sacred thing to me."
"No doubt Tom considered his own life tolerably sacred," he responded.
"As an abstract proposition life may be sacred. Practically it's about
the cheapest thing on earth. It persists and repeats and increases in
spite of war, pestilence, and famine. The principal value of the
individual life is its service to other life. Cross wasn't much good.
That old Holstein over there in the corral, with her long and
honourable record of milk production and thoroughbred calves, is of
more real benefit to the world. You see, it was Tom or Cross. One had
to go. I'm mighty glad it was Cross."
"Oh, if you put it that way----"
"That's the way to put it. Of course, we aren't sure that he's more
than shot up a little. Still, knowing what Tom can do with a gun, I'm
inclined to think that Cross is all same good Indian."
For some moments they walked in silence. It was rapidly becoming dark.
A heavy bank of cloud, blue-black in the waning light, was slowly
climbing into the northwestern sky, partially obscuring the last tints
of the sunset. The wind had ceased. The air was hot, oppressive, laden
with the scents of dry earth. Sounds carried far in the stillness. The
stamp of a horse in a stall, the low, throaty notes of a cow nuzzling
her calf, the far-off evening wail of a coyote--all seemed strangely
near at hand, borne by some telephonic quality in the atmosphere.
"How still it is!" said Clyde. "One can almost feel the darkness
descending."
"Electrical storm coming, I fancy. No such luck as rain."
"I don't suppose it affects you," she remarked, "but out here when
night comes I feel lonely. And yet that's scarcely the right word. It's
more a sense of apprehension, a realization of my own unimportance. The
country is so vast--so empty--that I feel dwarfed by it. I believe I'm
afraid of the big, lonely land when the darkness lies on it. Of course,
you'll laugh at me."
"No," he assured her. "I know the feeling very well. I've had it
myself, not here, but up where the rivers run into the Polar Sea. The
vastness oppressed. I wanted the company of men and to see the things
man had made. I was awed by the world lying just as it came from the
hand of God. The wilderness seemed to press in on me. That's what
drives men mad sometimes. It isn't the solitude or the loneliness
exactly. It's the constant pressure of forces that can be felt but not
described."
"I think I understand."
"The ordinary person wouldn't. There are no words to express some
things."
"I'm glad of it; I don't want the things I feel the most cheapened by
words."
"Something in that," he agreed. "Words are poor things when one really
_feels_. Providence seems to have arranged that we should be more or
less tongue-tied when we feel the most."
"Is that the case?"
"I think so--with men, at any rate. It's especially so with most of us
in affairs of love and death."
"But some men make love very well, you know," she smiled.
"I defer to your experience," he laughed back.
"Oh, my experience!" She made a wry face. "And what do you know of my
experience?"
"Less than nothing. But from some slight observation of my fellow men I
am aware that a very pretty and wealthy girl is in a position to
collect experience of that kind faster than she can catalogue it."
"Perhaps she doesn't want to do either."
"Referring further to my fellow man, I beg to say that her wishes cut
very little ice. She will get the experience whether she wants it or
not."
"Accurate observer! Are you trying to flatter me?"
"As how?"
"Do you think me pretty?"
"Even in the darkness----"
"Be serious. Do you?"
"Why, of course I do. I never saw a prettier girl in my life."
"Cross your heart?"
"Honest Injun--wish I may die!"
"Oh, well," said Clyde, "that's something. That's satisfactory. I'm
glad to extract something of a complimentary nature at last. You were
far better when I met you at the Wades'. You did pay me a compliment,
and you asked me for a rose. Please, sir, _do_ you remember asking a
poor girl for a rose?"
"I have it still."
"Truly?" A little throb of pleasure shot through her and crept into her
voice. "And you never told me!"
"I was to keep it as security. That was the bargain."
"But how much nicer it would be to say that you kept it because I gave
it to you. Are you aware that I made an exception in your favour by
doing so?"
"I thought so at the time," said Casey. "I expected a refusal. However,
I took a chance."
"And won. Are you sure that you have the rose still? And where among
your treasures do you keep it?"
He hesitated.
"You don't know where it is! That's just like a man. For shame!"
"You're wrong," Casey said quietly. "I keep it with some little things
that belonged to my mother."
She put out her hand impulsively. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I--I beg your
pardon!"
His strong fingers closed on hers. She did not withdraw her hand. He
leaned forward to look into her upraised eyes in the growing darkness.
"That seemed the proper place to keep it. I value your friendship very
much--too much to presume on it. We are at opposite ends of the
world--I'm quite aware of that. When this little holiday of yours is
over you'll go back to your everyday life and surroundings, and I don't
want you to take with you one regret or unpleasant memory."
"I don't know what I shall take," she replied gravely. "But I'm not at
all sure that I shall go back."
"I don't understand."
"Suppose," she said, "suppose that you were a moderately rich man, in
good health, young, without business or profession, without any special
talent; and that your friends--your social circle--were very much like
yourself. Suppose that your life was spent in clubs, country houses,
travel--that you had nothing on earth to do but amuse yourself, nothing
to look forward to but repetitions of the same amusement. What would
become of you?"
"To be perfectly truthful," he replied, "I should probably go to the
devil."
"The correct answer," said Clyde gravely. "_I_ am going to the devil.
Oh, I'm strictly conventional. I mean that I'm stagnating
utterly--mentally, morally, and physically. I'm degenerating. My life
is a feminine replica of the one I suggested to you. I'm wearied to
death of it--of killing time aimlessly, of playing at literature, at
charity, at uplifting people who don't want to be uplifted. And there's
nothing different ahead. Must I play at living until I die?"
"But you will marry," he predicted. "You will meet the right man. That
will make a difference."
"Perhaps I have met him."
"Then I wish you great happiness."
"And perhaps he doesn't care for me--in that way."
"The right man would. You're not hard to fall in love with, Clyde."
"Am I not--Casey?" She smiled up at him through the dark, a little
tremor in her voice. She felt his fingers tighten on hers like bands of
steel, crushing them together, and she was conscious of a strange joy
in the pain of it.
"You know you are not!" he said tensely. "I could----" He broke off
abruptly.
"Then why don't you?" she murmured softly.
"Why not?" he exclaimed. "I'd look pretty, wouldn't I, a busted land
speculator, falling in love with you! I've some sense of the fitness of
things. But when you look at me like that----"
He stooped swiftly and kissed her, drawing her to him almost fiercely.
"Oh, girl!" he said, "why did you tempt me? I've forgotten what was due
you as my guest. I've forgotten all that I've been remembering so
carefully for weeks. Now it's over. Some day the right man will tell
you how he loves you."
"I am waiting," she whispered, "for the 'right man' to tell me now!"
"Why," he exclaimed incredulously, "you don't mean----"
"But I do mean," she replied. "Oh, Casey, boy, didn't you know?
Couldn't you guess? Must I do all the love-making myself?"
The answer to this question was in the nature of an unqualified
negative, and extended over half an hour. But Casey retained many of
his scruples. He could not, he insisted, live on her money. If he went
broke, as seemed likely, he must have time to get a fresh stake. Clyde
waived this point, having some faith in Jim Hess. Of this, however, she
said nothing to him.
"We had better go," she said at last. "It is quite dark. Kitty will
wonder where we are."
"Shall you tell her? Better."
"Not to-night, anyway. She--you see----"
"She'd jolly you, you mean. Of course. But We may as well have it
over."
"Not to-night," Clyde repeated. She was uncomfortably conscious of her
confidences to Kitty Wade, made without much thought.
They approached the house from the rear, passing by the kitchen, whence
issued the sound of voices.
"Let's take a peep at Feng's company?" Casey suggested.
The kitchen was built apart from the house, but attached to it by a
covered way. Standing in the outer darkness, they could look in through
the open window without risk of being seen, and were close enough to
overhear every word.
Feng was resting from the labours of the day, sitting smoking on the
kitchen table. Facing him, a pipe between his wrinkled lips, sat old
Simon. His face was expressionless, but his eyes, black, watchful, were
curiously alert.
"What foh you come, Injun?" Feng demanded. "Wantee glub? Injun all time
_hiyu_ eat, all same hobo tlamp. S'pose you hungly me catch some
_muckamuck_. Catch piecee blead, catch col' loast beef--loast
_moosmoos_!"
"You catchum," Simon agreed. "Casey--where him stop?"
"Casey!" Feng's features expanded in a grin. "Him stop along gal--_tenas
klootchman_, you savvy. Go walkee along gal. P'laps, bimeby, two, tlee
hou', him come back."
Simon grunted gutturally. "Ya-as," he drawled.
"_Hiyu_ lich gal," Feng proceeded. "Have _hiyu_ dolla'. You bet. She
one _hiyu_ dam' plitty gal, savvy?"
"Hush!" Clyde whispered, as Casey would have put an end to this risky
eavesdropping. "I didn't think that Feng had such good taste. I'm
getting compliments from everybody to-night. I'm really flattered. I
want to hear some more."
"Better not," he advised apprehensively.
"But I want to."
"Ya-as," Simon drawled again. "_Hyas kloshe tenas klootchman_--ah-ha.
What name you callum?"
"Missee Clyde Bullaby," Feng replied, making a manful attempt at
Clyde's surname, which was quite beyond his lingual attainments.
"Clyde!" Simon repeated, in accents of incredulity. "Me savvy 'Clyde.'
Him big man-horse _hyas skookum_ man-horse. Him _mammook_ plow,
_mammook_ haul wagon!"
"You _hyas_ damfool Injun!" said his host politely. "Missee Clyde
Chlistian gal's name, catchum in Chlistian Bible; all same Swede Annie,
all same Spokane Sue, all same Po'tland Lily."
Simon digested this information with preternatural gravity. "Ya-as,"
said he. "Casey like Clyde?"
"Clyde likee Casey," Feng responded knowingly. "Casey call um woman
fliend. Lats! All same big Melican bluff, makee me sick. Bimeby some
time she makee mally him. Bimeby baby stop. Then me quit. Me go back to
China."
The prophet's last words blurred in Clyde's ringing ears. The friendly
darkness hid her flaming cheeks. Why, oh why, had she listened? She
was not even shocked by Casey's muttered curse. She felt his hand on
her arm, drawing her gently back into the deeper shadows. In silence
she followed.
"I'll fire that infernal yellow scoundrel to-morrow," he growled.
"No, no, it was my own fault," she declared. "Absolutely and entirely
my own. I--I----Oh, don't _look_ at me, please!"
"I won't," he promised, but his voice shook slightly.
"You're laughing!" she accused him tragically.
"Indeed I'm not," he denied; but with the words came an involuntary
sound strongly resembling a chuckle.
"Shame!" she cried.
"Yes, yes!" he gasped. "I know it. It's too bad. Ha-ha! I really beg
your pardon. I----Oh, good Lord!"
But Clyde gathered up her skirts and fled, whirling up the veranda
steps and into the house like a small cyclone, never pausing until a
locked door lay between her and a ribald, unfeeling world.