chin, laid his hand for a minute over the faintly pulsating heart of
Mother Douglas, swept Mary Hope up in his arms and kissed her again,
pulled open the door and was gone.
Through a rain-blurred window Mary Hope saw him run to the stable,
lead out Coaley who had taken refuge there, vault into the saddle
without troubling about the stirrup, and come thundering back past the
house and out of the gate, his head bent to the storm.
She looked at the clock. Three hours? He could never do it in three
hours! She went back and knelt beside the bed, and prayed as her
mother had taught her to pray. And not all of her petition was for her
mother. Every lightning flash, every crack, every distant boom of the
thunder made her cringe. Lance--Lance was out in the storm, at the
mercy of its terrible sword-thrusts that seemed to smite even the
innocent. Her mother--even her own mother, who had held unswervingly
to her faith--even she had been struck down!
A mile down the road Lance was leaning forward, encouraging Coaley to
more speed, because there the trail ran level and fairly free from
rocks. Later, he pulled the horse down to a walk, breathing him up a
hill; let him trot down the slope beyond, picked him into a swift
gallop when they again struck the level. He gauged, with coldblooded
attention to certain rough miles in the journey, just how swiftly
Coaley could cover ground and live. He knew horses. He knew Coaley,
and he knew that never yet had Coaley been pushed to the actual limit
of his endurance. But the girl Lance loved--ah, it was a Lorrigan who
loved!--was back there alone, and she would be counting the minutes.
It might be that he might return to find her weeping over her dead. So
Lance counted miles and a horse's strength, and bent to the storm and
rode.
Ten minutes past the hour, and he was snapping orders to the telegraph
operator. The storm, happily, had swept on down the canyon and had
given Jumpoff little more than a wetting and a few lightning flashes.
"And order out a special engine and coach,--what do I care what it
will cost? I'll pay. Wire your Lava chief that the money is here. Send
the doctor on ahead of the regular train--can't wait for that."
He had the Lorrigan habit of carrying a good deal of money on his
person, and he counted out banknotes until the operator lifted his
hand and said it was enough. He slammed out, then, mounted and rode to
a livery stable and gave orders there.
"--And I'll _buy_ the damn team, so kill 'em if you have to. Only get
the doctor out there." He was in the saddle and gone again before the
stableman had recovered from his sag-jawed astonishment.
"Guess there's something in that talk of him and the Douglas girl,"
the stableman gossiped to a friend while he harnessed his swiftest
team.
In ten minutes under the three hours Lance stopped at the house, went
in and saw that Mary Hope was still being game, and was very glad to
be in his arms, and that Mother Douglas was alive and staring up at
the ceiling, her face set in a deadly kind of calm.
"She moves her eyes to me, sometimes--she's been awake for almost an
hour. But she hasn't moved--" Her voice broke.
"It's all right--the doctor is on his way. And I'm here, sweetheart--you
won't be alone again. Where's that man of yours? I'll send him over
with a note to Belle. She'll come--she's a wonder with sick folks."
"Mother--I'm afraid mother wouldn't let her--she's that _set!_"
Lance looked at the corpse-like figure with the wide-open eyes and a
flicker of the lids now and then to show that she was alive, and
swallowed a lump in his throat. Mother Douglas would probably not know
who was with her, he thought.
Coaley, the proud-spirited, shambled slowly to the stable, his head
drooping, his eyes dulled with exhaustion. He had done his part. Lance
rubbed him down, blanketed him, working swiftly, his thoughts with
Mary Hope and her love and her fresh grief. He found Hugh, scribbled a
note to Belle and got him started on Jamie.
Mother Douglas moved her eyes, stared at him sharply when he went to
her. But she did not speak, did not move a muscle of her face. The
heart of Lance went heavy, but he could smile still at Mary Hope and
tell her that it was all right, and that the doctor ought to be there
in an hour or so, and that Belle would come, and that he loved her,
loved her, loved her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BELLE LORRIGAN WINS
In the second-best suit of Aleck Douglas, with his wrists showing
strong and shapely below the coat sleeves, and wrinkles across his
back, Lance turned his own steaming apparel before the kitchen fire
and waited to hear what the doctor had to say.
In his mind was a great wonder at the inscrutable operations of Fate,
that had twice brought tragedy into the Douglas house while he himself
was permitted to bring all his love, which without the tragedies might
have been rejected; which had sent him hurrying to Mary Hope on this
day of all the days when he had longed to come. He could not believe
that blind Chance had irresponsibly twisted the threads of Mary Hope's
life so that these things had come upon her. He was abashed, humbled,
filled with awe of the tremendous forces that rule our destinies. For
perhaps the first time in his life he stood face to face with
something beyond his understanding, something against which his
arrogant young strength was powerless.
The doctor presently came to him, beckoned him to the doorway and
preceded him into the rain-washed yard, where the late afternoon sun
shone with dazzling brightness after the storm.
"I think she'll live through this," the doctor began abruptly. "It was
not the lightning, altogether, though she undoubtedly did receive a
severe shock. There has been a predisposition to paralysis, which is
the true nature of this attack. Her right side is completely
paralyzed, and so far as I can determine after a more-or-less
superficial examination, her vocal chords are also affected, making
speech impossible. Her left arm is not affected, and her mind seems
fairly normal. Too much work, too much worry, too much monotony--and
she has reached the time of life when these things are most apt to
occur. Her husband's death was undoubtedly a contributary cause. With
proper medical attention she may recover from this attack--partially,
at least. She should be removed to a good hospital, or a trained nurse
placed in charge of the case here. That will be expensive. Do you know
whether the family can afford--"
"The family can afford anything she needs, anything that will give her
a chance," Lance told him brusquely.
"She will probably be an invalid as long as she lives," the doctor
went on. "She will be a great care. Are there any relatives, other
than the girl? It's a tremendous burden to fall on her shoulders, Mr.
Lorrigan."
"The burden," said Lance, "will not fall on her shoulders. I don't
mind telling you that Miss Douglas and I will be married very soon. As
soon as possible."
The doctor brightened visibly. "Congratulations, Mr. Lorrigan! I
should strongly advise you, then, to have the old lady removed to a
nice, quiet hospital. You will not want the care of her--young people
should not be handicapped in that way. I can make the necessary
arrangements. She should not be subjected to the discomforts of the
journey just at present--it's a long way by team, and a long way by
train. I should like to have her as quiet as possible for a few days,
at least."
"We'll look after that," said Lance, and hurried in to tell Mary Hope
that her mother was not going to die, and that Belle was coming--he
could hear the rattle of the buckboard.
"I don't know what mother will say," Mary Hope began, and stopped and
hid her eyes behind her hands. Her mother, poor soul, could not say
anything. It seemed terrible to Mary Hope that her mother must lie
there and endure the presence of the painted Jezebel in her home, and
be unable to utter one word of denunciation, one bitter reproach. It
was like a judgment; and she could not bear the thought that her
mother must suffer it. A judgment, or treachery on her part,--the
terrible treason of a child betraying her mother.
"It's all right, girl; you don't _know_ our Belle. We'll just leave it
to her. She'll find a way. And I'll go out now and tell her all about
it, and leave her to manage."
"I'll go," Mary Hope decided unexpectedly. "I have things to say--you
shall not go, Lance Lorrigan. You will please let me see her
alone--first. I'm that afraid of Belle Lorrigan I could creep under
the table and hide! And so I shall go alone to her."
Lance surrendered, and rolled a cigarette and smoked it in the
kitchen, and wondered if a cigarette had ever been smoked in that
house before, and whether the ghost of Aleck Douglas was somewhere
near, struggling vainly against the inevitable. It certainly was
unbelievable that a Lorrigan should be there, master--in effect, at
least--of the Douglas household, wearing the shoddy garments of Aleck
Douglas, and finding them at least three sizes too small.
They were an unconscionably long time out there,--those two women who
meant so much to him. He glanced in at Mother Douglas, in bed now and
looking terribly shrunken and old. The doctor was with her, sitting
close to the bed and leaning forward a little, watching her eyes while
he talked soothingly. Lance was not wanted there, either. He returned
to the kitchen and put more wood in the stove, and felt tentatively
his drying clothes.
Belle came in, holding Mary Hope by the hand. The eyes of both were
moist, shining, blue as the sky outside.
"Lance, honey, I'm glad," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek.
"Hope told me. And don't you two kids worry about me. I'll win my way
somehow. I always have--and I guess maybe you've got it in you, too,
Lance. It sure took something more than Lorrigan nerve to win Mary
Hope--though I'll admit Lorrigan nerve won me. No, I won't go in there
now. Don't tell her I'm here, we'll wait awhile."
It was dusk, and the lamp had not yet been lighted. Through the
unshaded window Mother Douglas could look out at the first pale stars.
The doctor had gone. The house was very quiet, the snapping of the
kitchen fire, the steady _tick_-tock, _tick_-tock of the old-fashioned
clock blending with, rather than breaking, the silence.
Mother Douglas closed her eyes. Her groping left hand ceased its
aimless plucking at a yarn knot in the patchwork comforter. Her breath
came evenly--Mary Hope wondered if she slept. A hand fell on Mary
Hope's shoulder, though she had not heard a footfall. She seemed
prepared, seemed to know what she must do. She slipped out of the
chair, and Belle slipped into it. Mother Douglas opened her eyes,
turned them that way; infinite weariness marked the glance. Her left
hand resumed again its vague groping, the work-worn fingers plucking
at the coverlet.
Sitting there in the dusk, her fingers faintly outlined in the old
wooden armchair in which Aleck Douglas had been wont to sit and brood
somberly over his work and his wrongs, Belle began softly to sing:
"Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?"
The withered hand lay still, the fingers clutching tightly a fold of
cotton cloth. Mother Douglas looked and closed her eyes. Leaning
close, when the song was finished, Belle saw that the grim lips were
trembling, that tears were slipping down the too calm face. With her
handkerchief she wiped away the tears, and sang again. The "Girl with
a Thousand Songs" had many Scottish melodies in her repertoire, and
the years had not made her forget.
At the last, the groping left hand reached painfully across, found
Belle's hand waiting, and closed on it tightly. Whenever Belle stopped
singing the hand would clutch hers. When she began again the fingers
would relax a little. It was not much, but it was enough.
In the kitchen Mary Hope moved quietly about, cooking supper,
straining and putting away the milk Hugh brought in. In the kitchen
Lance sat and watched her, and made love to her with his big eyes,
with his voice that made of the most commonplace remark a caress.
But that night, when Mary Hope was asleep and Belle was dozing beside
the stricken woman, Lance saddled Jamie and led Coaley home. And while
he rode, black Trouble rode with him and Love could not smile and beat
back the spectre with his fists, but hid his face and whimpered, and
was afraid.
For Lance was face to face again with that sinister, unnamed Something
that hung over the Devil's Tooth ranch. He might forget it for a few
hours, engrossed with his love and in easing this new trouble that had
come to Mary Hope; he might forget, but that did not make his own
trouble any the less menacing, any the less real.
He could not tell her so, now while she had this fresh worry over her
mother, but Lance knew--and while he rode slowly he faced the
knowledge--that he could not marry Mary Hope while the cloud hung over
the Devil's Tooth. And that there was a cloud, a black, ominous cloud
from which the lightning might be expected to strike and blast the
Lorrigans, he could not deny. It was there. He knew it, knew just how
loud were its mutterings, knew that it was gathering swiftly, pushing
up over the horizon faster than did the storm of the morning.
He would not put Coaley down the Slide trail, but took him around by
the wagon road. They plodded along at a walk, Coaley's stiffened
muscles giving him the gait of an old horse. There had been no urgent
need to take Coaley home at once, but it was an excuse, and Lance used
it. He could not think,--he could not face his own trouble when he was
near Mary Hope. She drove everything else from his mind, and Lance
knew that some things must not be driven from his mind. He had set
himself to do certain things. Now, with Mary Hope loving him, there
was all the more reason why he should do them.
The ranch seemed deserted, though of course it was late and he knew
that every one would be in bed. He found a lantern, put Coaley into
the box stall again, and spent a long time rubbing him down and
carrying him fresh hay and water. He went up then and roused Sam
Pretty Cow, who was sleeping in the small cabin he had elected to make
his own private habitation on the ranch. Sam Pretty Cow told him that
no one had come home as yet.
"Two, three days, I dunno. Mebby Tom comes then," he hazarded,
blinking at Lance. "This too quick. Nobody comes back same day, you
bet."
Lance stood looking down at him, scowling thoughtfully. "Sam, you've
been a long time with the outfit. You've been a good man. You aren't
crippled up--and you're the best rider of the bunch of us. Why don't
_you_ go out any more?"
Sam lighted a cigarette, blew out the blazing match and laid the burnt
stub carefully on a box. He smoked stolidly, gazing at the dingy wall
before him.
"Bust them bronks in the corral," he said at last, grinning briefly.
"You stay long, you see me ride. Uh-huh--yo' bet."
"Well, yes. That's all right. But why don't you go with the outfit?"
Lance leaned against the wall, arms folded, studying him. It was
almost hopeless, trying to get anything out of Sam Pretty Cow; still,
Lance tried it.
Sam Pretty Cow looked up at him, looked down at his bare feet that he
had swung out of bed when Lance wakened him.
"Uh-huh. That's why. That all right, I'm go. That ain't all right, I'm
don' go. You bet."
Lance tap-tapped his right arm with the fingers of his left hand,
chewed his lip and looked at Sam Pretty Cow.
"Still, dad lets you stick around the outfit," he drawled meaningly.
Sam Pretty Cow shot a quick glance toward him, looked at the door,
relaxed again and studied his toes which he wriggled on the dirty
floor.
"I'm good man, you bet. I'm mind my business." He drew a long breath,
glanced again from the door to Lance's face. "Tom's damn smart
man--me, I'm mebby smarter. I dunno."
Lance looked down at him, smiling strangely. "Sam, I'm minding my
business, too. I'm doing it by--not minding my own business. Tom
Lorrigan's a smart man--but I'm Tom Lorrigan's son."
Sam turned his foot over, looked critically at the calloused sole of
it, turned it back again and blew a mouthful of smoke. "Yeah--uh-huh.
You damn smart--you don't like them damn jail. I'm don't. We both
smart, you bet."
Lance lifted an eyebrow. "What's the Piegan word for _accomplice_,
Sam?" he asked softly.
Sam Pretty Cow considered. "Me, I'm don' know them damn word," he
decided.
"It's a word that sends smart men to jail, Sam. It means the man that
stays at home and--_knows_."
Sam Pretty Cow tucked his feet under the thin blanket, laid his
half-smoked cigarette on the box, with the burning end out over the
edge.
"Uh-huh. Yeah. You bet." He looked up at Lance, for the first time
meeting his eyes squarely. "I'm know them damn word you call. Nh-hn.
Long time I'm got that what it mean on my heart. You're damn right."
He waited a minute, saw the Lorrigan look on Lance's face, on his lips
that smiled enigmatically. "Them Californy got bronks to bust?"
"Surest thing you know, Sam. But that's all right. You stay."
Sam Pretty Cow looked doubtful as an Indian may ever be expected to
look.
"You stay, Sam. There'll be bronks to bust on the Devil's Tooth for a
long while yet." He moved to the door, pulled it open and stood
looking out. Only a few miles away Mary Hope lay asleep, loving him in
her dreams, please God. Here, the Shadow hung black over the Devil's
Tooth. He turned to Sam Pretty Cow whose hand was stretched toward the
smoky lamp.
"You forget that word, Sam. It doesn't mean anything at all--to a
Piegan. And Sam, if I'm not around to-morrow morning, you ride over to
the Douglas ranch, and take back the horse I borrowed. Belle may want
to send you to town. She's there."
Sam Pretty Cow's eyes widened appreciably. "Uh-huh--all right. I'm
go," he promised, and blew out the light.
Lance went slowly up to the house and lay face downward on his bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE DOPE
Traveling lightly, Lance had covered a hundred and fifty miles in four
days, through country where trails were few and rough. He had made
wide detours, had slept on the ground in his slicker, had eaten bacon
and bannocks cooked in the small frying pan which he carried in the
sack with his meager rations. He had missed altogether the Devil's
Tooth outfit, and was swinging back now by way of the Lava Beds, where
Tom had said that they were going. It was because Tom had named that
as his destination that Lance had ridden elsewhere to find him; good
reasoning, but so far unproductive of results.
Four days, and he had not heard from Mary Hope, had learned nothing
conclusive, either for or against the Devil's Tooth. Some clues he had
gleaned, some evidence that strengthened his suspicions, but nothing
to make him feel that the trip had been worth the hardship.
Without knowing just why, he had ridden out expecting to learn the
best or the worst and have done with nagging suspicion. It had seemed
to him that Fate meant to be kind, that his destiny and Mary Hope's
pointed the way to happiness. Now he was beginning to doubt. How was
happiness possible, if the outlaw blood of the Lorrigans ran at high
pressure through the veins of his family? He did not know to a
certainty that it did, but until he knew that it did not he could
never marry Mary Hope. He had to know. It had been pure madness, going
to her as he had gone. While his horse plodded up the hill to where
the lava outcroppings began, Lance meditated gloomily on the madness
that had driven him to her. He had felt so sure of himself and his
future, so much the master of his destiny and hers! Yet, even while he
wooed her tempestuously he had known that it was madness, that Trouble
was reaching even then to pluck him by the sleeve. Mary Hope and her
stern, Scotch integrity linked to the blackened Lorrigan name that
might soon stand on the roster of the State's prison? It was
impossible, inconceivable. He had been a hound to say to her what he
had said.
True, when her mother was stricken he had been there to help her, to
comfort her. But it would be small comfort to Mary Hope when the storm
broke over the Devil's Tooth.
"And I said Fate was with us--I said nothing could hurt her! And it
will hurt her all her life."
His sweaty horse paused to breathe, heaving a great sigh, looking
discouragedly at the climb yet before him. Lance came to himself and
swung off, giving the horse an apologetic slap on the shoulder. "You
ought to kick me cold, Sorry, for making you pack my hulking carcase
up this hill. Why didn't you stop at the bottom?"
Sorry looked at him, waited for Lance to take the lead, and climbed
after him more briskly. He was a big-boned, well-muscled animal, but
two hundred pounds had been a heavy load to carry up hill, and he was
glad to be rid of it.
At the top Lance did not remount. The thickly strewn flat rocks made
treacherous footing, and more than one man had taken a nasty fall
because he had chosen to ride that mile of lava when he should have
walked. It was somewhere along this stretch of rock outcropping that
Shorty had broken his knee so that he would never ride again to the
round-up.
Lance was walking along with his head down, brooding over his trouble,
when he fancied he heard a faint halloo. Sorry stopped and craned his
head. But Lance could see nothing save the barren stretch of lava and
the monotonous wilderness beyond, with mountains in the far background
and the Black Rim stretching grim on the left of him. He started on,
thinking that perhaps some animal or bird was responsible for the
sound. But he had gone but a short distance when it came again, more
distinctly because he was half listening for it.
He waited, made a guess at the location of the person who shouted, and
turned that way, changing the reins from his right hand to his left
and pulling his holstered six-shooter within easy reach of his hand.
This was not the country, his was not the errand, for carelessness,
and Lance was taking no risk.
As he walked his eyes roved continually over the brown expanse of
rocks and stunted juniper that formed the Lava Beds. Behind him came
Sorry, his worn shoes slipping now and then on a smooth rock, his head
bobbing patiently, close to Lance's shoulder. As so often happens, it
was the horse that first discovered the object of their search. He
pulled away from the direct line, looking and looking at what Lance,
keen-eyed though he was, mistook for a black rock with a juniper bush
growing beside it.
Lance turned that way, focussed his glasses upon the object and saw
what had happened. A horse had fallen with its rider, the two lying
together, the man pinned under the horse. A black horse which he
recognized, and a big, red-faced cowpuncher with gray eyes that did
not twinkle. While Lance looked, the man lifted his head, seemed to be
staring straight into Lance's face, opened his mouth and contorted his
pain-racked face in a shout. It was strange to have the sound reach
Lance's ears thinned and weakened by distance, while the glasses
brought the injured man so close that he could see the wild look of
entreaty in his eyes. Lance put up the glasses and began running, with
Sorry stumbling and slipping behind him.
"I been here since morning," the big cowpuncher chattered feverishly
when Lance came up to him. "I'm fixed, all right! I was dozing and I
didn't jump and he caught me when he fell. I guess his leg is broke,
but so is mine, fur's that goes. I come down hard on a rock and I
guess I broke some ribs or something. Hurt like hell for a few
hours--it ain't so bad now. Look out when you go to make him git
up--if he rolls on me it's all off. I guess it's all off, anyway, but
I don't want to be squashed to death."
Lance bit his lip. It was hard to hear the man talking, talking, in
that rapid, headlong fashion, while his leg lay under the full weight
of the black horse and the sun blazed on his uncovered head. It was
hard to see his shirt all blood-soaked on the left side where he had
fallen across an uptilted, thin-edged rock.
The horse, too, was in sorry state. A weed-grown crevice had cheated
him with its semblance to sound footing, and he lay with front leg
broken, groaning a little now and then while the man talked and
talked. And while he examined the two it seemed to Lance that Fate was
pointing, and saying that here, too, was one of the inscrutable
instruments by which he worked out the destinies of men. A slippery
rock, a man riding that way half asleep--