BELSHAZZAR
In October the Colorado mountain lands are very beautiful. They lack, it
is true, the gorgeous coloring of the eastern Indian summer, with its
beauty of scarlets, crimsons, ochres, maroons and mauves, the western
color scheme being in half-tints of low tone. The barbaric splendor of
the eastern autumn is here reflected only in the evening skies and in
the glowing grays, blues, browns, blacks, bronzes and golds of the eyes,
hair and faces of the hardy mountaineers.
Over the foothills and valleys are spread tenderly the more delicate
tints of the Master's palette; the enveiling haze is golden instead of
purple, the tints of verdure and earth are softly subdued and blend
together with all the exquisite harmony of an old Bokhara rug. Even the
once-disfiguring alkali barrens appeal to the eye now, their velvet
cloaks of ash-of-roses contrasting most agreeably with the delicate
olive-grays and heliotropes of the sage and rabbit brush. Here and there
a belated Indian-shot flaunts its brilliant lance and over yonder a
cactus masks its treachery with a blush; an occasional larkspur or
gentian raises blue eyes from the gentle hill slopes, and down on the
plains the martial Spanish-bayonet parades its oriflamme. The whole
landscape has an underlying wash of burnt sienna, glowing warmly through
the superimposed color.
The forests are mysterious with silent flitting mouse-blue and
gray-tawny shadows, and the dim trails and passes are incised with the
quaint hieroglyphics which tell the story of the migrant deer. The oily
black-green splashes of spruce and fir, the silvery valance of the
aspens, and the ermine of the snow coronal against the puce of
protruding peaks in the higher ranges are the only decided colors in
mass. Of early mornings the mountain bases in the distances are billows
of smoked-pearl mist; as the light strengthens and the temperature
rises, the mist rises with it, dissipating gradually into thin wreaths
of dainty rose-pink, faint orange--and nothingness. In the as yet
undisturbed shadows the bold cliffs suggest to the imaginative mind
aggregations of uncut crystals; higher up, where they catch the downward
reflected rays of the warming sun, they are amber and wine-colored
topazes, and on the ice-capped summits they are scintillant as diamonds.
At midday the pure rarified air is a marvel of transparent clarity and
everything is as clear cut as a cameo.
It is not until late in the afternoon that the great mystery evolves.
All of a sudden one is aware of a decided and yet intangible change.
Imperceptibly but surely the temperature falls, the quality of light
alters, the heat shimmer is no more and a golden radiance replaces the
brazen glare of the sun; into the nostrils steals an indescribable
perfume, elusive and infrangible, the brown scent of autumn wafted to
the senses on the cool breath of the frozen heights above.
Instinctively the perceptions sharpen; this is the hour when beast and
bird bestir themselves and the vista is enlivened with a new animation.
Out of nowhere, seemingly, struts a sage hen with her brood; another and
yet another materializes under your feet until it seems as if the very
soil was being transmuted into patches of gray-speckled life. In the
apparent vacancy of that soft-swelling knoll to the west looms up the
phantom bulk of an antelope, disproportionately large and deceptively
black against the sun. A dun-colored heap of trash at the foot of a
sagebrush in the bight of the dry creek-bed below resolves itself into a
very live-looking coyote which blinks yearningly at the unattainable
venison on the knoll above, wistfully licks his chops and slinks evilly
in the wake of the grouse broods.
As the sun dips behind the detached mountain spurs in the west the
shadows grow slightly blue and the high lights intensify. By some
optical necromancy the clouds seem massed in the west, the whole eastern
sweep of sky being an unbroken wash of salmon pink, relieved by tinges
of apple-green at its nethermost edges. Against this tender background
the minutest details of the majestic Rockies stand out with such vivid
distinctness that one gasps with the wonder of it. Long after the low
lands have gloomed these heights glow with a glory indescribable, and
when it has finally passed one feels as though a glimpse of Heaven
itself had been vouchsafed to the soul torn with Life's torturing
skepticism.
But what words can describe, what brush portray the awful grandeur of
the western sky! Before that riot of color the eye falls abashed as did
those of Moses on the mount. The sublimity of it shrivels man's pitiful
egoism until he grovels in humility and awe. When God lays His hand upon
the sky the dimmest eye sees and the most skeptical heart believes!
She was saying as much in substance to him as they rode homeward in the
soft afterglow, her face transfigured by the reverence in her heart. He
assented gravely, his eyes dwelling admiringly upon her rare beauty. In
the hallowing light of the hour she was invested with a new charm to
this appreciative Pantheist and from some pigeon-hole of his
well-stocked and retentive memory called the almost-inspired voice of
old Ossian:
"Fair was Colna-Dona, the daughter of kings,
Her soul was a pure beam of light!"
Unconsciously he put his thought into words and the voice was very
gentle. She looked at him dubiously, almost apprehensively; it was hard
to differentiate between this man's cynicism and sincerity. Then she
dropped her eyes in rosy confusion, her heart leaping unaccountably.
"That was a false note the Psalmist struck," he went on quietly, "when
he sang of the wrath of his God. It were better he had dwelt only on the
sweeter quantity of His love. I am sorry for that devotion inspired only
by fear. _This_ is the manifestation best calculated to insure one's
keeping in the right trail." He swept his hand comprehensively toward
the western glory. "Men do not love the thing they fear--nor women
either." His tone was quizzical and challenging.
She looked up in sudden relief; this was more familiar ground and she
laughed with sudden audacity.
"How do you know?"
"About women? Well, I'll admit that was a bluff; but I know all about
men; I am one of them! The divinity that shapes our ends must kiss, not
kick!"
At this unconscious confirmation of old Abigail's sage conclusions her
laugh pealed out merrily. "Feed 'em well, speak 'em kind, an' give 'em
theah haids on a hawd pull er in a tight place," she quoted with
inimitable mimicry, and he grinned with quick understanding.
"Good old Abbie! I wonder who she loved enough to learn all that? And so
you've been taking lessons, too!"
"I thought we had done with that," she said almost pleadingly. "You make
it very hard for me!"
Instantly he was all contrition. "Forgive me! I shall not offend again."
She took his extended hand frankly and for a time they rode in silence.
The narrow canyon trail necessitated their riding very closely together
and occasionally his leathern chaps brushed against her. Once, as they
rounded an abrupt turn, the heavy revolver at his hip was jammed
painfully against her gauntlet; she merely shut her teeth and smiled.
They were returning from Tin Cup, whither they had gone in the morning
in company with Robert and his mother, who were leaving for the East.
The morning after his arrival at the ranch she had bravely told her
brother the whole circumstances of the preceding week, magnanimously
taking upon herself all the blame--in which truth compels us to say her
brother entirely agreed--and thereafter had ridden out to the camp of
the ditch repairers and patched up a truce with Douglass.
"I am only a tenderfoot," she had wisely begun, "and always have had an
unhappy faculty of doing the wrong thing unintentionally. You are a big,
strong, generous man, and you will hold no malice against a foolish
girl--!"
He capitulated instantly; but he was over-voluble in his reassurances
and somehow she divined that her apology had missed fire so far as it
affected his determination to leave when he had recouped her brother for
the losses he had unwittingly brought about. She was not for a moment
deceived by his studiously polite words but was too politic to betray
it. He had affected not to see the hand she had timidly extended in
amity and for that he would pay, later! There was much of old Bob
Carter's inflexible determination in this frail-looking daughter of his.
To her mother she had, curiously enough, said nothing about it. She had
even been unwise enough to impose secrecy upon her brother and Abigail
as to the cause of the conflagration and Red's mishap, forgetting that
Mrs. Carter was range bred and born, and that Nellie Vaughan was an
incorrigible gossip! It would not have added to her equanimity to have
known that inside of twenty-four hours her astute mother was in
possession of all the facts and considerably perturbed thereover. She
would, however, have appreciated the relief in her mother's eyes on her
first encounter with Douglass.
"Clean, manly and good to look at," had been her shrewd verdict.
"Thoroughbred stock, too. A good friend and a bad enemy! A good cowman
and a valuable accession all around. I really must congratulate Robbie.
But what is Grace's mysterious interest in him? She was very anxious not
to have me find out the facts about this latest outrage, poor dear! Was
it that she was afraid that I would be unduly exercised over a trifle
like this?"
She smiled somewhat grimly as her mind went back to that day when, over
her husband's unconscious form thrown at her feet by the benumbing
bullets of a gang of rustlers, she had emptied the magazine of his
Winchester to such effect that border men rode far out of their way to
take off their hats to "Bob Carter's pard." The recollection sent the
blood into the fine old cheeks and her hands were again clenched
retrospectively upon that shapely bit of walnut and steel which had
served her so well that day. Then the lips softened wondrously and a
great sweetness flooded her eyes. She was thinking how tenderly he had
kissed her powder-blackened hands and bruised shoulder, his heart
throbbing with love and wonder and pride of her.
She was very gracious to Douglass that night at dinner, leading him on
with skill to talk of himself, and drawing him out to a degree that
would have astonished him had he realized it. Under her charming
personality, quick and sympathetic intelligence and clever induction,
his reserve melted gradually and soon he was talking more freely than he
had ever done to human being before. When he had finally made his exit
she turned thoughtfully to her children.
"We want to be very judicious in our dealings with that young man. He is
of sterling quality, but super-sensitive and impulsive, and requires
handling with gloves of velvet. I think he is scrupulously honest, and I
should imagine inordinately brave--and vain! Do you know anything of his
antecedents?"
"Only that he is American born, of Scotch descent, mother," replied
Robert, "and that he was educated at Yale. He is a civil engineer by
profession, I believe, but he is hardly the kind of man from whom one
would attempt to force confidences. All I know is that he is the
pluckiest fellow in the world, and the most generous and considerate.
Why, one night at the Alcazar--?" and he proceeded to the eager relation
of his pet story.
She listened attentively, nodding her full comprehension. "That is what
I would have expected of him; I am seldom mistaken in my judgment of the
type. And I presume his services here are in every way satisfactory?
Well, let us make every consistent effort to retain him; such men are
scarce even in this land of good men. I suppose that the man Matlock has
left the country?"
"He has not been seen since the night of which I spoke. Ken seems to
have run him out for keeps!" His voice was distinctly boastful. "And if
he knows what is good for him he'll stay out!"
If Mrs. Carter, glancing casually at her daughter, noted the sudden
compression of Grace's lips, she made no comment thereon. She had
craftily wormed out of one of the men, the youngster detailed for
chore-work, the story of the men's agreement to leave Matlock's
punishment to Douglass. She understood the situation thoroughly, and, as
a typical range woman she approved of Douglass's determination. The
quarrel was eminently his, and upon him in person devolved its
settlement. What she could not understand was the distress in her
daughter's face as she said earnestly:
"I am not so sure that you have seen the last of him. Such men as he are
tenacious and revengeful; he fired our stacks, you remember! Don't look
so surprised, Robbie. It was very nice and thoughtful of you and Grace
to try to keep me from knowing, but your mother was born in this valley
and is still in full possession of all her faculties. Besides,
conversational topics are scarce, and your neighbors like to talk!" Then
as an after-thought, "I think Mr. Douglass is fully able to cope with
the situation!"
Later, as she stood by the window of her darkened room looking
abstractedly out into the beautiful night, she saw him enter the room
where Red lay strumming on his guitar. Approvingly she noted his quick,
springy stride, his alert, upright carriage, the whole sinewy grace of
him as he bent kindly over his comrade.
"What a splendid young animal it is," she mused smilingly, "one
eminently calculated to fill the eye of a romantic young girl. After
all, why should I interfere? As he said to-night, 'every one has to dree
his own weird!' Then again, she has known all kinds of men, and this in
all likelihood is merely a transient fancy bred of the novel environment
and will doubtlessly pass in due course." Her face grew serious,
however, as she recalled the concern in Grace's face at her reference to
Matlock's revengefulness. "Propinquity--and youth--and passion! A
precarious trio, indeed. Everything considered, I think I will take her
back with me," concluded this astute woman of the world.
She was, nevertheless, not unduly surprised at Grace's negation of that
proposal when it was broached the week before her mother's departure.
The young woman urged her very evident physical betterment since coming
to the ranch, and her great desire to witness that most spectacular of
range functions, the fall round-up. With the imposed condition that her
stay would not extend over the holiday season, her mother consented,
hesitatingly. But she took occasion, that very evening, to casually
bring Douglass under discussion, concluding a very generous estimation
of him with the significant words: "One can trust to an appeal to his
honor when every other means fail!" That she directed the remark
particularly to Grace, was doubtless without premeditation, and
assuredly called for no reply. Yet there was a certain resentment in the
girl's rather constrained answer:
"Do you think it probable that such an exigency will ever arise?"
The world-wise old woman looked thoughtfully at the flushed face,
thinking how singularly beautiful it was. Then she scanned the perfectly
proportioned figure beneath, its exquisite modeling revealed and
accentuated by the clinging silk fabric of the thin evening gown.
"Anything is probable to a man of his temperament," she said calmly.
"Strong natures like his are contemptuous of limitations and laugh at
ethical restrictions. That man, if I mistake not, will go straight to
his desire as a bullet to the mark, regardless of what stands between."
Robert laughed fatuously, missing entirely the drift of the
undercurrent. "You have certainly got him sized up right, Mater. Ken is
'sure chain lightin',' as Williams says."
"And if it be evil to stand in the path of a thunderbolt, how
inconceivably foolish to invite its stroke!"
The young man stared dubiously at her; all this seemed inconsequential
to him, this talk of thunderbolts and bullets. Did these foolish women
think that Ken Douglass was ass enough to expose himself recklessly to
either. In some respects the master of the C Bar was as unimaginative
and simple-minded as a new-born baby.
"Don't yuh worrit none about thundeh-strikes," interjected Abbie with
crisp assurance, entering the room in pursuit of the too-intrusive
Buffo, who every evening persisted in joining the family circle. "They
ain't goin' to be no thundeh-stawms so late in thu yeah; yuh suahly
know thet, Mis' Cahtah, yuh was bawn heah!"
The lady addressed smiled indulgently at her old friend. "I am hoping
that there will be no storms of any sort which will cause suffering and
misery to anybody, Abbie. Life is too short to be spoiled with
heartaches."
"Do you know whose property this is?" she asked Grace that night, coming
into her bedroom as she was preparing to retire. "One of the men found
it this morning just outside the main gate and brought it to me,
thinking it belonged to Robert. But the handwriting is not his, I know,
and I thought you might recognize it. There is no name on the fly-leaf."
She handed her a thin, long, morocco-covered notebook, which opened of
itself, as she laid it in the young lady's hand, at a place where the
leaves were separated by a withered flower. It was a long-dried mountain
heart's-ease, and, despite her efforts, her cheeks reddened consciously.
The writing on the pages was in verse and she recognized the bold, free
style at a glance. She had commented frequently on his firm, legible
script when auditing his accounts in company with her brother. And once
he had sent her a little formal note, asking if she had any commissions
for him to execute in Denver, where he had gone on some private business
shortly after her overtures at reconciliation. She had eagerly grasped
the olive branch so chillingly extended, and his matching of the silk
floss samples she sent him in reply was entirely to her satisfaction. It
is a question if she would have appreciated the grim humor of her
commission had she known his real mission to the capital city. He had
been informed, on more or less reliable authority, that Matlock had been
seen there a few days previously! The report proved to be false, and the
note was now enveloping a cluster of withered heart's-ease in her
sandalwood jewel case.
Without hesitation she identified the handwriting. "I think it must
belong to Mr. Douglass;" she said frankly, meeting her mother's eyes
without a particle of indecision. "I am quite familiar with his writing,
having helped Bobbie in auditing his accounts. And this flower, I think,
is one I gave him some months ago."
Mrs. Carter's eyes snapped with a fierce pride. She put her arm tenderly
about the velvety neck.
"Kiss me, dearie! You are very like your father, and he was the bravest
man God ever made!" At the threshold she turned; "I think it entirely
permissible--indeed, I much desire that you read that verse."
For the first time since her coming to the ranch, Grace Carter turned
the key in the door lock; then she laid the notebook on her dressing
table and completed her preparations for rest. Finally, she sat down on
the edge of the bed and opened the book. Carefully she removed the
flower and laid it on a silk handkerchief, folded for its reception. For
a time she sat looking at it reminiscently; then with a visible effort
she turned to the clearly-written pages.
She read with great deliberation, a second and then a third time, a hymn
to love, boyishly crude, but charged to the full with youth and
longing; no better and no worse, perhaps, than the average effusion of
twenty-six in love, not with woman but with love; authentic, and for
that reason sacred; overwrought, as became the heedless passion which
inspired it; self-revealing, but of sex and temper rather than of mind.
A few years back it would have shocked her; now, it made her think.
She replaced the flower, closed the book and thrust it under her pillow.
Far into the night she sat there, her arms clasped about her knees, her
eyes luminous but unseeing. Finally the night chill aroused her and she
slipped into bed.