TWO MEETINGS AFTER DARK
For a moment neither Beth nor Van could speak. The girl, like a
startled moon-sprite, wide-eyed and grave, had taken on a mood of
beauty such as the man had never seen. She seemed to him strangely
fragile, a trifle pale, but wholly exquisite, enchanting.
No signs were on her face, but she had wept--hot, angry tears, within
the hour. And here was the cause of them all! She had wished he would
come--and feared he would come, as conflicting emotions possessed her.
Now that he stood here, with moonlight on half of his face, her
thoughts were all unmarshaled.
Van presently spoke.
"I'm a kid, after all. I couldn't go away without--this."
"I wish you had! I wish you had!" she answered, at his smile. "I wish
I had never seen you in the world!"
His heart was sore for jesting, but he would not change his way.
"If not in the world, where _would_ you have wished to see me, then?"
"I never wished to see you at all!" she replied. "Your joke has gone
too far. You have utterly mistaken my sense of gratitude."
"Guess not," he said. "I haven't looked for gratitude--nor wanted it,
either."
"You had no right!" she continued. "You have said things--done
things--you have taken shameful advantage--you have treated me like--I
suppose like--that other--that other---- You dared!"
Van's face took on an expression of hardness, to mask the hurt of his
heart.
"Who says so?" he demanded quietly. "You know better."
"It's true!" she answered hotly. "You had no right! It was mere brute
strength! You cannot deny what you have been--to that miserable
woman!" Tears of anger sped from her eyes, and she dashed them hotly
away.
Van stepped a little closer.
"Beth," he said, suddenly taking her hand, "none of this is true, and
you know it. You're angry with that woman, not with me."
She snatched her hand away.
"You shan't!" she said. "Don't you dare to touch me again. I hate
you--hate you for what you have done! You've been a brute probably to
her as well as to me!"
"To you? When?" he demanded
"All the time! To-day!--Now!--when you say I'm angry at a--woman who
is dead!--a woman who died for you!"
It hit him.
"Poor Queenie," he said, "poor child."
"Yes--poor Queenie!" Her eyes blazed in the moonlight. "To think that
you dared to treat me like----"
"Beth!" he interrupted, "I won't permit it. I told you to-day I loved
you. That makes things right. You love me, and that makes them
sacred. I'd do all I've done over again--_all_ of it--Queenie and the
rest! I'm not ashamed, nor sorry for anything I've done. I love
you--I say--I love you. That's what I've never done before--and never
said I did--and that's what makes things right!"
Beth was confused by what he said--confused in her judgment, her
emotions. Weakly she clung to her argument.
"You haven't any right--it isn't true when you say I love you. I
don't! I won't! You can't deny that woman died of a broken heart for
you!"
"I don't deny anything about her," he said. "I tried to be her friend.
God knows she needed friends. She was only a child, a pretty child.
I'm sorry. I've always been sorry. She knew I was only a friend."
She felt he was honest. She knew he was wrung--suffering, but not in
his conscience. Yet what was she to think? She had heard it all--all
of Queenie's story.
"You kissed her," she said, and red flamed up in her cheeks.
"It was all she asked," he answered simply. "She was dying."
"And you're paying for her funeral."
"I said I was her friend."
"Oh, the shamelessness of it!" she exclaimed as before, "--the way it
looks! And to think of what you dared to do to me!"
"Yes, I kissed you without your asking," he confessed. "I expect to
kiss you a hundred thousand times. I expect to make you my wife--for a
love like ours is rare. Whatever else you think you want to say,
Beth--now--don't say it--unless it's just good-night."
With a sudden move forward he took her two shoulders in his powerful
hands and gave her a rough little shake. Then his palms went swiftly
to her face, he kissed her on the lips, and let her go.
"You!--Oh!" she cried, and turning she ran down the slope of the hill
as hard as she could travel.
He watched her going in the moonlight. Even her shadow was beautiful,
he thought, but all his joy was grave.
She disappeared within the house, without once turning to see what he
had done. He could not know that from one of the darkened windows she
presently peered forth and watched him depart from the hill. He was
not so assured as he had tried to make her think, and soberness dwelt
within his breast.
Half an hour later he and old Dave were riding up the mountain in the
moonlight. The night from the eminence was glorious, now that the town
was left behind. Goldite lay far below in the old dead theatre of past
activities, dotting the barren immensity with its softened lights like
the little thing it was. How remote it seemed already, with its vices,
woes, and joys, its comedy and tragedy, its fevers, strifes, and toil,
disturbing nothing of the vast serenity of the planet, ever rolling on
its way. How coldly the moon seemed looking on the scene. And yet it
had cast a shadow of a girl to set a man aflame.
Meantime Bostwick had been delayed in securing McCoppet's attention.
The town was still excited over all that had happened; the saloons were
full of men. Culver had been an important person, needful to many of
the miners and promoters of mining. His loss was an aggravation,
especially as his deputy, Lawrence, was away.
The more completely to allay suspicions that might by any possibility
creep around the circle to himself, McCoppet had been the camp's most
active figure in organizing a posse, with the sheriff, to go out and
capture Cayuse. His reasons for desiring the half-breed's end were
naturally strong, nevertheless his active partisanship of law and
justice excited no undesirable talk. He was simply an influential
citizen engaged in a laudable work.
It was late when at length he and Bostwick could snatch a few minutes
to themselves. The gambler's first question then was something of a
puzzle to Bostwick.
"Well, have you got that thirty thousand?"
"Got it? Yes, I've got it," Bostwick answered nervously, "but what is
the good of it now?"
It was McCoppet's turn to be puzzled.
"Anything gone wrong with Van Buren, or his claim?"
"Good heavens! Isn't it sufficient to have things all gone wrong with
Culver? What could be worse than that?"
The gambler flung his cigar away and hung a fresh one on his lip.
"Say, don't you worry on Culver. Don't his deputy take his place?"
"His deputy?"
"Sure, his deputy--Lawrence--a man we can get hands down."
Bostwick stared at him hopefully.
"You don't mean to say this accident--this crime--is fortunate, after
all?"
"It's a godsend." McCoppet would have dared any blasphemy.
Bostwick's relief was inordinate.
"Then what is the next thing to do?"
"Wait for Lawrence," said the gambler. Then he suddenly arose. "No,
we can't afford the time. He might be a week in coming. You'll have
to go get him, to-morrow."
"Where is he, then?"
"Way out South, on a survey. You'd better take that car of yours, with
a couple of men I'll send along, and fetch him back mighty pronto. We
can't let a deal like this look raw. The sooner he runs that
reservation line the better things will appear."
Bostwick, too, had risen.
"Will your men know where to find him?"
"If he's still on the map," said the gambler. "You leave that to me.
Better go see about your car to-night. I'll hustle your men and your
outfit. See you again if anything turns up important. Meantime, is
your money in the bank?"
"It's in the bank."
"Right," said McCoppet. "Good-night."