HER BAD PENNY
Nan reached her room in a fever of excitement, angry at de Spain,
bitterly angry at Gale, angry with the mountains, the world, and
resentfully fighting the pillow on which she cried herself to sleep.
In the morning every nerve was on edge. When her Uncle Duke, with his
chopping utterance, said something short to her at their very early
breakfast he was surprised by an answer equally short. Her uncle
retorted sharply. A second curt answer greeted his rebuff, and while
he stared at her, Nan left the table and the room.
Duke, taking two of the men, started that morning for Sleepy Cat with
a bunch of cattle. He rode a fractious horse, as he always did, and
this time the horse, infuriated as his horses frequently were by his
brutal treatment, bolted in a moment unguarded by his master, and
flung Duke on his back in a strip of lava rocks.
The old man--in the mountains a man is called old after he passes
forty--was heavy, and the fall a serious one. He picked himself up
while the men were recovering his horse, knocked the horse over with
a piece of jagged rock when the frightened beast was brought back,
climbed into the saddle again, and rode all the way into town.
But when his business was done, Duke, too, was done. He could neither
sit a horse, nor sit in a wagon. Doctor Torpy, after an examination,
told him he was booked for the hospital. A stream of profane protest
made no difference with his adviser, and, after many threats and hard
words, to the hospital the hard-shelled mountaineer was taken. Sleepy
Cat was stirred at the news, and that the man who had defied everybody
in the mountains for twenty years should have been laid low and sent
to the hospital by a mere bronco was the topic of many comments.
The men that had driven the cattle with Duke, having been paid off,
were now past getting home, and there were no telephones in the Gap.
De Spain, who was at Calabasas, knew Nan would not be alarmed should
her uncle not return that night. But early in the morning a messenger
from McAlpin rode to her with a note, telling her of the accident.
Whatever his vices, Duke had been a good protector to his dead
brother's child. He had sent her to good schools and tried to revive
in her, despite her untoward surroundings, the better traditions of
the family as it had once flourished in Kentucky. Nan took the saddle
for Sleepy Cat in haste and alarm. When she reached her uncle's
bedside she understood how seriously he had been hurt, and the
doctor's warnings were not needed to convince her he must have care.
Duke refused to let her leave him, in any case, and Nan relieved the
nurse, and what was of equal moment, made herself custodian of the
cash in hand before Duke's town companions could get hold of it.
Occasional trips to the Gap were necessary as the weeks passed and her
uncle could not be moved. These Nan had feared as threatening an
encounter either by accident, or on his part designed, with de Spain.
But the impending encounter never took place. De Spain, attending
closely to his own business, managed to keep accurate track of her
whereabouts without getting in her way. She had come to Sleepy Cat
dreading to meet him and fearing his influence over her, but this
apprehension, with the passing of a curiously brief period, dissolved
into a confidence in her ability to withstand further interference, on
any one's part, with her feelings.
Gale Morgan rode into town frequently, and Nan at first painfully
apprehended hearing some time of a deadly duel between her truculent
Gap admirer and her persistent town courtier--who was more
considerate and better-mannered, but no less dogged and, in fact, a
good deal more difficult to handle.
As to the boisterous mountain-man, his resolute little cousin made no
secret of her detestation of him. She denied and defied him as openly
as a girl could and heard his threats with continued indifference. She
was quite alone, too, in her fear of any fatal meeting between the two
men who seemed determined to pursue her.
The truth was that after Calabasas, de Spain, from Thief River to
Sleepy Cat, was a marked man. None sought to cross his path or his
purposes. Every one agreed he would yet be killed, but not the
hardiest of the men left to attack him cared to undertake the job
themselves. The streets of the towns and the trails of the mountains
were free as the wind to de Spain. And neither the town haunts of
Calabasas men nor those of their Morgan Gap sympathizers had any
champion disposed to follow too closely the alert Medicine Bend
railroader.
In and about the hospital, and in the town itself, Nan found the chief
obstacle to her peace of mind in the talk she could not always avoid
hearing about de Spain. Convalescents in the corridors, practically
all of them men, never gathered in sunny corners or at the tables in
the dining-room without de Spain's name coming in some way into the
talk, to be followed with varying circumstantial accounts of what
really had happened that day at Calabasas.
And with all the known escapades in which he had figured, exhausted as
topics, by long-winded commentators, more or less hazy stories of his
earlier experiences at Medicine Bend in the company of Whispering
Smith were dragged into the talk. One convalescent stage-guard at the
hospital told a story one night at supper about him that chilled Nan
again with strange fears, for she knew it to be true. He had had it
from McAlpin himself, so the guard said, that de Spain's father had
long ago been shot down from ambush by a cattleman and that Henry de
Spain had sworn to find that man and kill him. And it was hinted
pretty strongly that de Spain had information when he consented to
come to Sleepy Cat that the assassin still lived, and lived somewhere
around the head of the Sinks.
That night, Nan dreamed. She dreamed of a sinister mark on a face that
she had never before seen--a face going into bronzed young manhood
with quick brown eyes looking eagerly at her. And before her wondering
look it faded, dreamlike, into a soft mist, and where it had been, a
man lay, lifting himself on one arm from the ground--his sleeve
tattered, his collar torn, his eyes half-living, half-dead, his hair
clotted, his lips stiffened and distended, his face drawn. And all of
this dissolved into an image of de Spain on horseback, sudden, alert,
threatening, looking through the mist at an enemy. Then Nan heard the
sharp report of a rifle and saw him whirl half around--struck--in his
saddle, and fall. But he fell into her arms, and she woke sobbing
violently.
She was upset for the whole day, moody and apprehensive, with a
premonition that she should soon see de Spain--and, perhaps, hurt
again. The dream unnerved her every time she thought of him. That
evening the doctor came late. When he walked in he asked her if she
knew it was Frontier Day, and reminded her that just a year ago she
had shot against Henry de Spain and beaten the most dangerous man and
the deadliest shot on the mountain divide in her rifle match. How he
had grown in the imagination of Sleepy Cat and Music Mountain, she
said to herself--while the doctor talked to her uncle--since that day
a year ago! Then he was no more than an unknown and discomfited
marksman from Medicine Bend, beaten by a mountain girl: now the most
talked-of man in the high country. And the suspicion would sometimes
obtrude itself with pride into her mind, that she who never mentioned
his name when it was discussed before her, really knew and understood
him better than any of those that talked so much--that she had at
least one great secret with him alone.
When leaving, the doctor wished to send over from his office medicine
for her uncle. Nan offered to go with him, but the doctor said it was
pretty late and Main Street pretty noisy: he preferred to find a
messenger.
Nan was sitting in the sick-room a little later--B-19 in the old wing
of the hospital, facing the mountains--when there came a rap on the
half-open door. She went forward to take the medicine from the
messenger and saw, standing before her in the hall, de Spain.
She shrank back as if struck. She tried to speak. Her tongue refused
its office. De Spain held a package out in his hand. "Doctor Torpy
asked me to give you this."
"Doctor Torpy? What is it?"
"I really don't know--I suppose it is medicine." She heard her uncle
turn in his bed at the sound of voices. Thinking only that he must not
at any cost see de Spain, Nan stepped quickly into the hall and faced
the messenger. "I was over at the doctor's office just now," continued
her visitor evenly, "he asked me to bring this down for your uncle."
She took the package with an incoherent acknowledgment. Without
letting her eyes meet his, she was conscious of how fresh and clean
and strong he looked, dressed in a livelier manner than usual--a
partly cowboy effect, with a broader Stetson and a gayer tie than he
ordinarily affected. De Spain kept on speaking: "The telephone girl in
the office down-stairs told me to come right up. How is your uncle?"
She regarded him wonderingly: "He has a good deal of pain," she
answered quietly.
"Too bad he should have been hurt in such a way. Are you pretty well,
Nan?" She thanked him.
"Have you got over being mad at me?" he asked.
"No," she averred resolutely.
"I'm glad you're not," he returned, "I'm not over being mad at myself.
Haven't seen you for a long time. Stay here a good deal, do you?"
"All the time."
"I'll bet you don't know what day this is?"
Nan looked up the corridor, but she answered to the point: "You'd
lose."
"It's our anniversary." She darted a look of indignant disclaimer at
him. But in doing so she met his eyes. "Have you seen the decorations
in Main Street?" he asked indifferently. "Come out for a minute and
look at them."
She shook her head: "I don't care to," she answered, looking
restlessly, this time, down the corridor.
"Come to the door just a minute and see the way they've lighted the
arches." She knew just the expression of his eyes that went with that
tone. She looked vexedly at him to confirm her suspicion. Sure enough
there in the brown part and in the lids, it was, the most troublesome
possible kind of an expression--hard to be resolute against. Her eyes
fell away, but some damage had been done. He did not say another word.
None seemed necessary. He just kept still and something--no one could
have said just what--seemed to talk for him to poor defenseless Nan.
She hesitated helplessly: "I can't leave uncle," she objected at
last.
"Ask him to come along."
Her eyes fluttered about the dimly lighted hall: de Spain gazed on her
as steadily as a charmer. "I ought not to leave even for a minute,"
she protested weakly.
"I'll stay here at the door while you go."
Irresolute, she let her eyes rest again for a fraction of a second on
his eyes; when she drew a breath after that pause everything was over.
"I'd better give him his medicine first," she said, looking toward the
sick-room door.
His monosyllabic answer was calm: "Do." Then as she laid her hand on
the knob of the door to enter the room: "Can I help any?"
"Oh, no!" she cried indignantly.
He laughed silently: "I'll stay here."
Nan disappeared. Lounging against the window-sill opposite the door,
he waited. After a long time the door was stealthily reopened. Nan
tiptoed out. She closed it softly behind her: "I waited for him to go
to sleep," she explained as she started down the corridor with de
Spain. "He's had so much pain to-day: I hope he will sleep."
"I hope so, too," exclaimed de Spain fervently.
Nan ignored the implication. She looked straight ahead. She had
nothing to say. De Spain, walking beside her, devoured her with his
eyes; listened to her footfalls; tried to make talk; but Nan was
silent.
Standing on the wide veranda outside the front door, she assented to
the beauty of the distant illumination but not enthusiastically. De
Spain declared it could be seen very much better from the street
below. Nan thought she could see very well where they stood. But by
this time she was answering questions--dryly, it is true and in
monosyllables, but answering. De Spain leading the way a step or two
forward at a time, coaxed her down the driveway.
She stood again irresolute, he drinking in the fragrance of her
presence after the long separation and playing her reluctance
guardedly. "Do you know," she exclaimed with sudden resentment, "you
make it awfully hard to be mean to you?"
With a laugh he caught her hand and made her walk down the hospital
steps. "You may be as mean as you like," he answered indifferently.
"Only, never ask me to be mean to you."
"I wish to heaven you would be," she retorted.
"Do you remember," he asked, "what we were doing a year ago to-day?"
"No." Before he could speak again she changed her answer: "Yes, I do
remember. If I said 'no' you'd be sure to remind me of what we were
doing. We can't see as well here as we could from the steps."
"But from here, you have the best view in Sleepy Cat of Music
Mountain."
"We didn't come out here to see Music Mountain."
"I come here often to look at it. You won't let me see you--what can I
do but look at where you live? How long are you going to keep me away
from you?"
Nan did not answer. He urged her to speak. "You know very well it is
my people that will never be friendly with you," she replied. "How can
I be?"
They were passing a lawn settee. He sat down. She would not follow.
She stood in a sort of protest at his side, but he did not release her
hand. "I'll tell you how you can be," he returned. "Make me one of
your people."
"That never can be," she declared stubbornly. "You know it as well as
I do. Why do you say such things?" she demanded, drawing away her
hand.
"Do you want to know?"
"No."
"It's because I love you."
She strove to command herself: "Whether you do or not can't make any
difference," she returned steadily. "We are separated by everything.
There's a gulf between us. It never can be crossed. We should both of
us be wretched if it ever were crossed."
He had risen from the bench and caught her hand: "It's because we
haven't crossed it we're wretched," he said determinedly. "Cross it
with me now!" He caught her in his arms. She struggled to escape. She
knew what was coming and fought to keep her face from him. With
resistless strength and yet carefully as a mother with an obstinate
child, he held her slight body against his breast, relentlessly
drawing her head closer. "Let me go!" she panted, twisting her averted
head from the hollow of his arm. Drinking in the wine of her
frightened breath, he bent over her in the darkness until his pulsing
eagerness linked her warm lips to his own. She had surrendered to his
first kiss.
He spoke. "The gulf's crossed. Are you so awfully wretched?"
They sank together down on the bench. "What," she faltered, "will
become of me now?"
"You are better off now than you ever were, Nan. You've gained this
moment a big brother, a lover you can drag around the world after you
with a piece of thread."
"You act as if I could!"
"I mean it: it's true. I'm pledged to you forever--you, to me,
forever. We'll keep our secret till we can manage things; and we
_will_ manage them. Everything will come right, Nan, because
everything must come right."
"I only hope you are not wrong," she murmured, her eyes turned toward
the sombre mountains.