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[Illustration: "He tried to shoot once more, into the very face of the
oncoming brute."--FRONTISPIECE. _See Page 245._]
THE HEART OF THUNDER MOUNTAIN
By EDFRID A. BINGHAM
With Frontispiece in Colors
By ANTON OTTO FISHER
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by Arrangements with Little, Brown & Company
Copyright, 1916,
By Edfrid A. Bingham.
All rights reserved
Published, March, 1916
Reprinted, March, 1916 (twice)
July, 1916; August, 1916
April, 1917
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Forbidden Pasture 1
II The Road to Paradise 15
III Seth Huntington's Opportunity 26
IV The Highest Bidder 37
V "He Shall Tell Me!" 50
VI The Story of the Scar 60
VII The Way of a Maid With a Man 71
VIII The End of Her Stratagem 86
IX Hearts Insurgent 99
X Strictly Confidential 112
XI Avalanche 121
XII Sunnysides 133
XIII Hillyer's Dilemma 144
XIV Coals of Fire 155
XV The Valley of the Shadow 166
XVI Questions and Answers 176
XVII Interlude 186
XVIII The Challenge of the Brute 193
XIX Smythe's Last Budget 202
XX "The Trail Held True" 215
XXI In the Hollow of the Storm 228
XXII The Narrow Passage 238
XXIII The Miracle 252
XXIV Haig's Argument 264
XXV Diana 278
XXVI The Snow 288
XXVII The Voice in the Hurricane 302
XXVIII The Man Who Did Not Forget 316
XXIX Ghosts 330
XXX The Lamp Relighted 344
XXXI Sangre De Cristo 359
THE HEART OF THUNDER MOUNTAIN
CHAPTER I
THE FORBIDDEN PASTURE
She sat hunched up in the middle of the silent pasture, where the
tall, thin grass ran ripening before the breeze in waves the hue of
burnished bronze. Her cow pony grazed greedily a few yards away,
lifting his head now and then to gaze inquiringly at her, and then
returning to his gluttony with a satisfied snort, commendatory of this
long rest. The girl had removed her small sombrero to adjust the
masses of tawny hair that had become disordered in her morning ride;
and the breeze now played with it, and the sun sought out its glints
of gold. She was fair, of a curiously rich complexion with soft golden
tints beneath the skin, as if the rusty gold in her hair was just the
outcropping of what ran in solution in her veins. And there was a
certain air about her that contrasted strangely with the scene upon
which she now gazed intently, with her head bent forward, and her
hands clasped round her upthrust knees.
It was a little valley she had come upon by chance, snugly tucked away
among the hills. Below the bronze-colored slope there were lush
meadows of a brilliant green, and a shallow, swift stream that
flashed over black bowlders and white sand; beyond the meadows lay
more shining pastures rising to pale-green aspen groves and then to
dark-green pines; and above all these the foothills climbed swiftly to
the mountains, and the mountains more swiftly to the sky. There were
faint blue mists in the foothills, fainter violet shadows on the
distant fields, an icy whiteness on the peaks; and in the sky no more
than two small puffs of cloud like eiderdown adrift in the depths of
blue. What at first had seemed an utter silence laid upon that summer
landscape had now become, as she looked and listened, a silence full
of sound; of that indefinable humming undertone of nature maturing in
the sun; of insects busy at their harvest; of birds in the distance
calling; of grasses rustling in the breeze; of pines on the long ridge
droning like an organ in the Recessional.
Yes, it was very beautiful, she thought. And sweet. And peaceful. She
had come a long way--halfway across the great continent--to find that
peace. But why should there be a touch of sadness in all that beauty?
And why should there be need to search for her handkerchief to press
against her eyes? For the first time since she had come to Paradise
Park she felt a little lonely, a little doubtful about the wisdom of
her brave revolt.
She sank back at last, and lay curled up in the grass with her head
pillowed on one bent arm. There, to her half-closed eyes, the grass
seemed like a fairy forest, soon peopled by her fancy, the fancy of a
girl who still retained the quick imagination of a child. An Indian
paintbrush flamed at her with barbaric passion; nodding harebells
tinkled purple melodies; and a Mariposa lily with a violet eye seemed
like a knight in white armor, bowing himself into her outstretched
hand. Her eyelids drooped more and more. The music of the pines and
the murmur of the pasture blended in a faint and fading lullaby....
* * * * *
Tuesday's shrill neigh awakened her. She sat up shivering, for the
warm air was underlaid with cold; and quivering, for the alarm had
fallen pat upon the climax of her dream. She rubbed her eyes, a little
blinded by the sunlight, and saw that Tuesday stood with head high and
nostrils distended, gazing past her toward the upper end of the
pasture. She was not surprised, being yet under the spell of her
dream-fairyland, to see a horseman galloping straight toward her. If
not the white knight, then--For some seconds she stared, awakening
slowly; and smiled at length at her childish fancy. It was only a
cowboy, doubtless, riding upon his own prosaic business. And yet--She
became gradually aware of something unusual, something disquieting in
the manner of the man's approach. The horse was leaping under the
spurs; the rider sat upright and alert in the saddle; and suddenly, as
she watched him, the man's hand went to his hip, and there was a gleam
of metal in the sun.
She was not afraid. Seth Huntington had assured her there was nothing
to be feared in Paradise Park. But for all that, it was not without
uneasiness that she hastily arranged the meager folds of her divided
skirt, and passed her hands quickly over the still disordered masses
of her hair. And then he was fairly upon her, reining up with a jerk
that brought the sweating pony back upon its haunches.
There was an angry glitter in the man's dark eyes, his face was black
with passion, and the bright object she had seen flashing in his hand
was the twin brother of Huntington's six-shooter. He was roughly, even
meanly, dressed. His coarse blue flannel shirt was unbuttoned at the
throat; his soiled brown corduroy trousers were thrust unevenly into
dusty and wrinkled boot tops; his old, gray hat was slouched over one
side of his forehead, shading his eyes. But the face beneath that
faded and disreputable hat, as Marion saw with a slight thrill of
curiosity, belonged to no ranch hand or cow-puncher. Whoever he might
be, and whatever he might be doing there scowling at her, she felt at
once that he was as foreign as herself to that neighborhood. But there
was no time at that moment to analyze her feeling, to formulate her
thought. And her next impression, following very swiftly, was one of
vague antagonism. She felt that she was going to hate him.
"What new trick is this?" he demanded angrily, when he had looked from
the girl to her pony, and at her again, with unconcealed suspicion.
For a moment she was undecided whether to answer him sharply or to
rebuke his incivility with silence.
"I don't know!" she replied at last, by way of compromise between her
two impulses, with a half-playful emphasis on the "I," accompanied by
a very solemn, shaking of the head and a very innocent widening of the
eyes.
There was a pause while he searched her face with a distrustful
scrutiny.
"You're not just the person I was looking for," he said finally, with
a touch of irony.
"How fortunate!" she replied, in a tone that was like a mocking echo
of his own.
Her eyes met his unflinchingly, a little impudently, telling him
nothing; then they slowly fell, and rested on the revolver in his
hand. With a shrug he thrust the weapon into its holster.
"Thank you!" she said sweetly. "You really won't need it."
He jerked his head impatiently.
"How did you get in here?" he demanded, quite as roughly as before.
There was no reason in the world why she should not have answered him
simply and directly; but she did not. She was exasperated, not so much
by his words as by his manner, and not so much by his manner even as
by something provocative in the man himself. He was rude, but it was
not his rudeness that most annoyed her. She scarcely knew what it
was,--perhaps a certain indifference, a certain cold contempt that she
detected underlying all his anger, a certain icy and impenetrable
reserve that, for all his hot words, and for all his lowering looks,
she resented most as being in some way personal to her. And instantly
the minx in her rose up for mischief.
"By aeroplane, of course!" she said tartly.
It was a silly speech, and she regretted it almost before it had left
her lips.
A faint flush came into the enemy's face.
"Spoken like a woman!" he retorted. "Always tragic over little things
and flippant over big ones."
That brought the color up into her face. But she was not subdued; for
the cat in woman also has nine lives--at least.
"There's my horse," she said, with a toss of her head. "You saw him."
"True! But cow ponies don't easily jump four-wire fences."
"Why should they when the fences are down?"
"Good! We arrive by the devious ways that women love. Perhaps you'll
give me the answer now that you should have given in the first place.
_How did you get in here?_"
She bit her lip, reflected a moment, and attempted a flank movement.
"My name is Marion Gaylord."
"I knew that."
"But you have never seen me before!"
"No. But that's one of Huntington's horses, and Miss Gaylord is a
guest at his house. You see, I am more courteous than you after all. I
answer your questions."
"Perhaps I'll answer yours when I know what right you have to ask
them."
A light began to dawn upon him.
"Do you mean--you don't know where you are?"
"No."
He gave her a long, searching look before he spoke again.
"My name is Philip Haig," he said, leaning forward with a curious
smile.
The result was all that he could have wished for. Until that moment
she had remained seated, firm in her determination not to be
disturbed by him. But now she rose slowly to her feet, her face
reddening, her lips parted, a frightened look in her eyes. The shoe
was on the other foot, with a vengeance.
He saw all this, and without compunction, seized his advantage.
With a grim smile he threw the reins over the pony's head, swung
himself out of the saddle, and stepped toward her. As he came on he
removed his dilapidated hat with a gesture that made her forget it
was dilapidated,--a mocking, insolent gesture though it was. In
spite of her embarrassment she let none of his features escape her
quickening interest. She saw that he was tall, erect, alert; handsome
in some strange and half-repellent way, with his pale dark face,
rather long in contour, and with his black, curly hair matted on
the broad forehead. But she almost recoiled when, on his drawing
nearer, she saw for the first time--it had been hidden by the shadow
of his slouched hat--an ugly scar that ran from the outer corner of
his left eye down to the jawbone below the ear. It gave to one
side of his face a singularly sinister expression that vanished when
he turned and disclosed a profile that was not without nobility
and charm.
Then suddenly her mystification was complete. Their eyes met, not as
before, but very near, so close had he come to her, still smiling. And
instantly, instinctively, she lowered hers; for she felt as if she had
been caught peering through a window at something she had no right to
see. Yet the next instant she was looking again, half-guiltily, but
irresistibly drawn. The eyes were of a curious color,--smoky black, or
dark gray-blue, or somber purple,--liquid and deep like a woman's,
but with a steady, dull glow in their depths that was unlike anything
she had ever seen or imagined. What was it that burned there?
Suffering? Hunger? Evil? Sorrow? Shame? It gave her something to think
about for many a day and night. Meanwhile--
"I see you have heard of me," he said mockingly.
She had no reply. She was realizing slowly that she had trespassed,
that she had perhaps seriously compromised her cousin, and, most
humiliating of all, that she had assumed quite the wrong attitude
toward the man.
"You really didn't know you were on my land?" he demanded, with a
little less offensiveness in his tone.
"No," she answered weakly.
"And Huntington didn't send you here?"
"No."
"I believe you, of course. But it's rather queer. How did you
happen--if you don't mind--"
She did not mind in the least--was eager, indeed, to explain her
presence there.
"I'm just learning to ride," she began impulsively.
"This was my first venture off the valley road, and I--"
"And you came straight to me!" he exclaimed, chuckling.
At that a strange thing happened. He had meant only that she, the
guest and cousin of Seth Huntington, his bitter foe, had blundered
straight into the camp of the enemy; and that was a rare joke on
Huntington. But she was a girl; her little adventure was already rosy
with romance; and the effect of his careless speech was as if he had
looked into her heart, and read aloud for her something she had not
known was there. To his surprise and wonder the girl's fair face
turned red to the roots of her tawny hair, and a look of helpless
confusion came into the clear, blue eyes that until now, for all her
embarrassment, had frankly met his own. She looked suddenly away from
him.
"You make me ashamed," she said at length, stealing a look at him.
"If you know anything about my difficulty with Huntington," he began,
"you'll understand that--"
"I do. I do understand!" she interrupted eagerly. "I don't know much
about it--the trouble. They haven't told me. I've only overheard some
talk--and I didn't ask. I rode down the valley this morning trying to
do it like a cowboy. And there was a branch road--and then the break
in the fence--and before I knew it I'd fallen asleep. That's
all--except--" She shot a half-mischievous glance at him "--you
spoiled a very beautiful dream."
But this was all lost upon him. His face was clouding again.
"Where is it--the break in the fence?"
Chagrined at the failure of her bit of coquetry, she merely pointed in
the direction whence she had come.
"Thank you!" he said. "At last!"
With that he went swiftly to his pony, mounted, and started to ride
away. But suddenly he reined up again, whirled his horse savagely
around, and faced Marion with the sunlight full upon the scarred side
of his face, now ugly with menace.
"If that fence has been cut," he said, in a hard and level tone, "it's
been cut by Huntington or his men. You tell him for me, please--and
you'll be doing _him_ a favor not to forget it--tell him that he's a
fool to anger me. I've been very patient in this business, but I don't
claim patience as one of my virtues. Do you hear? Tell him he's a fool
to anger me!"
She watched him gallop to the gap in the barb-wire fence; she watched
him dismount to examine the severed wires; she watched him leap on his
horse again, and ride furiously down the road until he was lost to
view below the dip in the slope toward the valley. And still for some
minutes she stood staring at the place where he had disappeared. Then,
left alone with her pent-up emotions, she no longer resisted them.
Tears of vexation started in her eyes; chagrin, resentment, anger
swept over her in turn. She dug the heel of one small boot into the
unoffending soil--his soil--and thrust her clenched hands down at her
side.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" she cried, over and over again, striding forward and
back across some yards of pasture, trampling lilies and harebells
under her heedless feet, turning her flaming face at intervals toward
the spot in the smiling landscape that had last held the figure of
Philip Haig.
The shame of it! She had never--never--never been treated so
outrageously. It was unendurable--and she had endured it! She flung
herself down on the ground and wept.
* * * * *
Marion was now facing life alone. Her nearest remaining relative was
her cousin, Claire Huntington. Her mother--a Southern girl who might
have stepped out of a panel by Fragonard, so fine and soft and
Old-World-like was her beauty--had died when she was still a child.
Her father, Doctor Gaylord, was the antithesis of the sprite-like
creature he had married,--a big, athletic, outdoor sort of man, with
truly violent red hair and beard, whose favorite expression about
himself had been that a very capable pirate had been sacrificed to
make a tolerable physician. But he had prospered in his profession;
and then had died with amazing suddenness, leaving his estate in an
almost hopeless mess.
Robert Hillyer had tackled the problem,--Robert, the alert, the
busy, the supremely confident, the typical money-getter of the
money-worshipping metropolis. He had long been deeply in love with
Marion, but he had not made great headway in his suit, despite the
advantage of Doctor Gaylord's approval. Now, having saved enough out
of the estate (for so he said, though he never told Marion the
details of that miracle) to provide her with an income barely
sufficient to keep her in comfort but not in the luxury to which she
had been accustomed, he plainly expected his reward. And this was to
Marion an intolerable situation. She did not love Robert. She liked
him, admired him, trusted him; no more. Knowing her father's wishes,
she saw the way marked straight before her; for Robert already had
wealth, and could and would give her all the material things she
desired. Time and again she was on the point of yielding, but
something checked her, held her back, as if a voice had whispered
in her ear, and strong arms had seized her. She grew restless,
discontented, melancholy. And suddenly, on a moment's inspiration, the
strangest impulse she had ever known, she had revolted and fled from
the scene of her unhappiness, telling Robert (by letter) only that
she must have time to think, and that for six months he must leave
her to herself. She had fled to Claire, that cousin on her father's
side, who some years before, to the wonder and chagrin of many
Gaylords east and west,--to all except the Viking physician, who
had rejoiced in her spirit,--had eloped with a cowboy, since turned
successful cattleman, whom she had met at the Denver Carnival. Ten
days now had Marion been in Paradise Park, rejoicing in her
freedom, rejoicing in the half-wild life, rejoicing in the tonic
air and the tonic beauty of this Rocky Mountain valley, shut in,
isolated, and so aptly named. And only to-day had there come any
emotions that disturbed her peace.
* * * * *
When she looked up again her eyes were sharply arrested by a scene
that seemed curiously to picture her own mood. Far up at the head
of the valley a cloud that was scarcely heavier than a mist came
stealing out of a gulch to take its shining way along the range of
mountains. Dropping in its flight a shower as light as a bridal veil,
it sped glistening across the face of mountain after mountain,
softening the stark grays and reds, while above it the peaks gleamed
white. On and on it came until at last it arrived at the mouth of a
deep, dark gorge in the side of a mountain that, in its strange and
forbidding aspect, differed notably from all the others in the
majestic range. There it paused as if arrested by some stern command,
hung for a moment in palpable agitation, and was swiftly swallowed
up in the gorge. And again she had a vague and uneasy feeling, as
she had when first she saw it, that Thunder Mountain,--but she could
not fit that feeling into thought, could find no words to frame it.
Yet she was fascinated.
It was half-hidden now in surging, black storm-clouds, while all the
sharp and snow-clad peaks around it glittered in the sun. Even in
those rare moments when it was freed from clouds and mists it stood
alone in its peculiar grandeur. Unlike all the others it wore no
diadem of snow. Some terrible convulsion of nature, some cataclysm at
its birth or in the fiery days of its youth, had left it bald-headed,
ugly, and deformed. But for that catastrophe it would have been far
loftier than any of its fellows; and even now the hunchback towered
among them, its flat head level with their pointed peaks, the most
conspicuous figure in the imposing pageant raised against the western
sky.
And its deformity was not the whole of its misfortune. It bore the
brunt of every tempest that broke upon that massive barrier of
mountains. Its granite head was the very breeding-place of storms. The
peaks around it had their days of calm, but Thunder Mountain never. An
hour or two perhaps--no more. It knew no peace. The elements were, and
are now, and forever will be quarreling upon its worn and battered
head; lightning and rain and snow and wind are forever hammering and
beating it turn by turn. It is the Quasimodo and the Lear and the Gray
Friar of mountains, all in one. And if, on some still and perfect day,
its tonsured head emerges from the clouds, the watcher in the Park has
but to turn his head a moment, and look again, and lo! it wears its
gray cowl as before, and stoops growling and grumbling under its
endless punishment.
Suddenly, as Marion looked, the silence was rudely shattered. Roll on
roll of thunder swept across the valley, crashed against the hills,
rebounded from wall to wall of mountains, until all the Park was
filled with the sullen bellowing. And then, amid all the tumult,
Marion heard something more,--a voice that mingled with the voice of
the mountain, and thrilled her while it filled her with a singular
disquietude. She had dismissed Haig from her thoughts. She was sure of
that. And yet through all the uproar, and in the tense silence that
ensued, she heard his taunting voice:
"And you came straight to me!"