THE RUNAWAY
During these days Bayard saw Ann regularly. He would be up before dawn
that he might do the necessary riding after his cattle and reach Yavapai
before sunset, because, somehow, he felt that to see another man's wife
by daylight was less of a transgression than though he went under cover
of darkness. Perhaps it was also because he feared that in spite of his
caution to keep Ann's identity secret, in spite of the community's
accepted first conclusion, Yavapai might learn that she was wife and not
sister, and wished to fortify her against the sting of comment that
might be passed should the revelation occur and his affection for her be
guessed.
He was punctilious about his appearance. Invariably he changed shirts
and overalls before riding to the town, and he had reserved one gorgeous
green silk scarf for those occasions. He never appeared before the woman
unshaven and, since his one confessional outburst, he was as careful of
his speech, his manner, as he was of his person.
Ann had taken to Arizona whole heartedly and dressed suitably for the
new life she was leading--divided skirts, simple blouses, a brimmed hat
that would shade her eyes. Her cheeks bronzed from sun and wind, the
blood pumped closer to her skin from the outdoor life and her eyes,
above the latent pain in their depths, took on the brilliance of health.
Her new manner of dress, the better color that came to her face and
accentuated her beauty, the growing indications of vitality about her,
served only to fan the flame in Bayard's heart, for as it made her more
attractive to him, it also made her more understandable, brought her
nearer to his virile kind.
[Illustration: Ann had taken to Arizona whole-heartedly and dressed
suitably for the new life she was leading.]
"I've come to tell you about him, ma'am," he always said, by way of
opening their conversations.
Not once again did he call her by her given name, but, though he was
always formal, stiffly polite, never allowing an intimation of personal
regard to pass his lips, he could not hide the adoration in his eyes. It
came through his dogged resolution to hold it back, for he could not
keep his gaze from following her every move, every bend of her neck,
change of her lips, lift of her arms and shoulders or free, rhythmic
movement as she walked.
Ann saw and read that light and, though something in her kept demanding
that she blind herself to its significance, that, if necessary to
accomplish this, she refuse to give Bayard gaze for gaze, she could no
more have hidden the fact of that evidence of his love from her
understanding than she could have stopped the quickening of her pulse
when he approached.
Nora saw that light, too. She saw the trouble with it in his face;
and the realization of what it all meant was like a stab in the breast.
He had ceased entirely to laugh and banter with her as he had done
before Ann Lytton came to Yavapai; in other days he had always eaten at
the Manzanita House when in town, and his humorous chiding had been one
of the things in which the girl found simple delight. Now, he came and
went without eating; his words to her were few, almost without exception
they were of the other woman and, always, his speech was sober.
Mrs. Weyl returned to Yavapai and with her coming Ann found another
outlet for the trouble that she fought vainly to repress. To Bayard she
had given the fullest detail of her confidence; through Nora she had
found a method of forgetting for short successions of hours. But Bayard
was a man, and between them was the peculiar barrier which his love had
erected; Nora was not the type to which Ann would go for comfort and
there, anyhow, was again a dividing circumstance which could not wholly
be overcome. It was the emotional receptiveness of an understanding
woman that Ann Lytton needed; she wanted to be mothered, to be pitied,
to be assured in the terms of her kind and all that she found in the
clergyman's wife.
"Why, the poor child!" that good woman had cried when, on her arrival
home, her husband had told her of Ann's presence. "And you say her
brother has disappeared?"
"From Yavapai, yes; I suspect, though, that Bruce Bayard knows
something of where he is and I guess the girl could find him. Something
peculiar about it, though. Bruce is worried. And I think he's quite
desperately in love."
Forthwith, his wife dropped all other duties and went to Ann. In fifteen
minutes the novelty of acquaintance had worn off and in an hour Ann was
crying in the motherly arms, while she poured her whole wretched story
into the sympathetic ears; that is, all of the story up to the day when
Bruce Bayard told her why she must not help him nurse Ned Lytton back to
physical and moral health.
To the accompaniment of many there-there's and dear-child's and caresses
Ann's outburst of grief spent itself and the distress that had reflected
on the countenance of the older woman gave way to an expression of sweet
understanding.
"And because of everything, we--Mr. Bayard and I--had thought it best to
let people go on thinking that I am ... Ned's sister.... You see, it
might be embarrassing to have them talk."
Her look wavered and the face of Mrs. Weyl showed a sudden
comprehension. For a breath she sat gazing at the profile of the girl
beside her. Then she leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek and said,
"I know, daughter, I know."
That meeting led to daily visits and soon Bruce and Ann were invited to
eat their evening meal at the Weyls'. It was a peculiar event, with the
self-consciousness of Ann and the rancher putting an effective damper on
the conversation. Afterward, when the men sat outside in the twilight,
Bruce smoking a cigarette and the minister drawing temperately on an
aged cob pipe, the cowman broke a lengthy silence with:
"I'm glad she told your wife ... about bein' his wife.... It relieves
me. A thing like that is considerable of a secret to pack around."
The other blew ashes gently from the bowl of his pipe, exposing the ruby
coal before he spoke.
"If you ever think there's anything any man can do to help--from
listening on up--just let me try, will you, my boy?"
"If any man could help, you'd be the one," was the answer. "But th'
other day we sifted this thing down; it's up to th' man himself to be
sure that he's ridin' th' open trail an' ain't got anything to cover up.
"But lately so much has happened that I don't feel free, even when I'm
out on the valley. I feel, somehow, like I was under fence ... fenced
in."
Nora and Ann continued their rides together and one afternoon they had
gone to the westward in the direction of Bayard's ranch. It was at
Nora's suggestion, after they had agreed that Bruce might be on his way
to Yavapai that day. In the distance, they had sighted a rider and after
watching him a time saw him wave his hat.
"That's him," the waitress said. "Here's some fine grass; let's give th'
horses a bite an' let 'em cool till he comes up."
They waited there then, slouched in their saddles. Ann wanted to talk
about something other than Bruce, because, at the mention of his name,
that old chill was bound to assert itself in Nora.
"This is a better horse than the one I've had," she commented, stroking
the pony's withers and hoping to start talk that would make the interval
of waiting one of ease between them.
"Yes," agreed Nora, "but he's got a bad eye. I was afraid of him when we
first started out, but he seems to be all right. Bruce had one that
looked like him once an' he tried to pitch me off."
"Hold up your head, pony," Ann said, "You'll get us into trouble--"
Her horse, searching grass, had thrust his head under the pony Nora rode
and, as Ann pulled on the reins, he responded with the alacrity of a
nervous animal, striking the stirrup as he threw up his head. He
crouched, backed, half turned and Nora's spur caught under the headstall
of his bridle. It was a bridle without a throat-latch, and, at the first
jerk, it slipped over his ears, the bit slid from his mouth and
clattered on the rocks. Ann's first laugh changed to a cry of fright.
Nora, with a jab of her spurs, started to send her pony close against
the other, reaching out at the same time with her arms to encircle his
head. But she was too late, too slow. The freed horse trotted off a few
steps, throwing his nose to one side in curiosity, felt no restraint,
broke into a lope, struck back along the road toward town and,
surprised, frightened by his unexpected liberty, increased his pace to a
panicky run.
Behind, Nora pulled her horse up sharply, knowing that to pursue would
only set the runaway at a greater speed.
"Hang on!" she shouted, in a voice shrill with excitement. "Hang on!"
Ann was hanging on with all her strength. She was riding, too, with all
the skill at her command; for greater safety she clung to the horn with
both hands. She tried to speak to the horse under her, thinking that she
might quiet him by words, but the rush of wind whipped the feeble sounds
from her lips and their remnants were drowned in the staccatoed drumming
of hoofs as the crazed beast, breathing in excited gulps, breasted the
hill that led them back toward town, gathering speed with every leap
that carried them forward.
Nora, seeing that a runaway was inevitable, cried to her mount and the
pony, keyed to flight, sped along behind the other, losing with every
length traveled. Tears of fright spilled from the girl's eyes, chilling
her cheeks. What might happen was incalculable, she knew.
Then new sounds, above the beat of her horse's hoofs, above the wind in
her ears; the sweeping, measured, rolling batter of other hoofs, and
Nora turned her head to see Bruce Bayard, mouth set, eyes glowing, brim
of his hat plastered back against the crown by his rush, urge his big
sorrel horse toward her. He hung low over the fork of his saddle, clear
of his seat, tense, yet lithe, and responding to every undulation of the
beast that carried him.
From a distance Bayard had seen. He thought at first that Ann had
started her pony purposely, but when the animal raced away toward town
at such frantic speed, when Ann's hat was whipped from her head, when he
heard a distant, faint scream, he knew that no prompting of the woman's
had been behind the break. He stretched himself low over Abe's neck and
cried aloud, hung in his spurs and fanned the great beast's flanks with
his quirt. Never before had the sorrel been called upon so sharply;
never before had he felt such a prodding of rowels or lashing of
rawhide. Ears back, nose out, limbs flexing and straightening, spurning
the roadway with his drumming hoofs, the great animal started in
pursuit.
For a mile the road held up hill, following closely the rim of a rise
that hung high above the valley to the right. As it rose, the wagon
track bent to the left, with the trend of the rim. At the crest of the
hill Yavapai would be visible; from there the road, too, could be seen,
swinging in a big arc toward the town, which might be reached by travel
over a straight line; but that way would lead down an abrupt drop and
over footing that was atrocious, strewn with _malpais_ boulders and
rutted by many washes.
It was to overtake Ann's runaway before he topped this rise that Bayard
whipped his sorrel. He knew what might happen there. The animal that
bore the woman was crazed beyond control, beyond his own horse judgment.
He was running, and his sole objective was home. Now, he was taking the
quickest possible route and the moment he struck the higher country he
might leave the road and go straight for Yavapai, plunging down the
sharp point that stood three hundred feet above the valley, and making
over the rocks with the abandon of a beast that is bred and reared among
them. Well enough to run over rough ground at most times, but in this
insane going the horse would be heedless of his instinctive caution,
sacrificing everything for speed. He might fall before he reached the
valley floor, he might lose his footing at any yard between there and
town, and a fall in that ragged, volcanic rock, would be a terrible
thing for a woman.
Abe responded superbly to the urging. He passed Nora's pony in a shower
of gravel. His belly seemed to hang unbelievably close to the ground,
his stride lengthened, his tail stood rippling behind him, his feet
smote the road as though spitefully and he stretched his white patched
nose far out as if he would force his tendons to a performance beyond
their actual power. But he could not make it; the task of overcoming
that handicap in that distance was beyond the ability of blood and
bone.
As he went on, leap by leap, and saw that his gaining was not bringing
him beside Ann in time, Bayard commenced to call aloud to the horse
under him, and his eyes grew wide with dread.
His fears were well grounded. As though he had planned it long before,
as if the whole route of his flight had been preconceived, the black
pony swung to the right as he came up on level ground. He cut across the
intervening flat and, ears back, hindquarters scrooching far under his
body as he changed his gait for the steep drop, he disappeared over the
rim.
Bayard cried aloud, the sorrel swung unbidden on the trail of the
runaway and twenty yards behind stuck his fore feet stiffly out for the
first leap down the rock-littered point. Unspeakable footing, that.
_Malpais_ lumps, ranging from the size of an egg to some that weighed
tons, were everywhere. Between them sparse grass grew, but in no place
was there bare ground the size of a horse's hoof, and for every four
lengths they traveled forward, they dropped toward the valley by one!
Ears up now, the sorrel watched his footing anxiously, but the black
pony, eyes rolling, put his whole vigor into the running, urged on to
even greater efforts by the nearness of the pursuing animal. The fortune
that goes with flying bronchos alone kept his feet beneath his body.
Bayard's mouth was open and each time the shock of being thrown forward
and down racked his body, the breath was beaten from him. He looked
ahead, watching the footing at the bottom, leaving that over which they
then passed to his horse, for the most critical moment in a run such as
they took is when the horses strike level ground. Then they are apt to
go end over end, tripped by the impetus that their rush downhill gives
them. He knew that he could not overtake and turn Ann's pony with safety
before they reached the bottom. He feared that to come abreast of him
might drive the frantic beast to that last effort which would result in
an immediate fall. Every instant was precious; every leap filled with
potential disaster.
The stallion left off pretense at clean running. He slipped and
floundered and scrambled down the point; at times almost sitting on his
haunches to keep the rush of his descent within safety and retain
control of his balance. Slowly he drew closer to the other animal,
crowding a bit to the left to be nearer, grunting with his straining,
dividing his attention between preserving caution and making progress.
Ann's hair came down, tumbling about her shoulders, then down her back,
and finally brushed the sweated coat of her runaway with its ends. The
horrible sensation of falling, of pitching forward helplessly, swept
through her vitals each time the animal under her leaped outward and
down. It grew to an acute physical pain by its constant repetition. Her
face was very white, but almost expressionless. Only her eyes betrayed
the fear in her by their darkness, by their strained lids. Her mouth was
fixed in determination to play the game to its end. She heard the other
horse coming; Bayard's voice had called out to her. That was all she
knew. This flight was horrible, tragic; with each move of her horse she
feared that it must be the last, that she would be flung into those
rocks, yet, somehow, she felt that it would end well. For Bayard was
near her.
Not so with the man. As they slid down halfway to the valley, he cried
aloud to his horse again, for he saw that along the base of the drop,
right at the place toward which they were floundering, a recent storm
had gouged a fresh wash. Deep and narrow and rock filled, and, if her
horse, unable to stop, unable to turn with any degree of safety whatever
went into that ...
Behind them, loosened rocks clattered along, the dust rose, their trail
was marked by black blotches where the scant red soil had been turned
up. The sorrel's nose reached the black's reeling rump; it stretched to
his flank, to the saddle, to his shoulder.... And Ann turned her head
quickly, appealingly.
"Careful ... Abe! Once more ... easy ..."
Bayard dropped his reins; he leaned to the left. He scratched with his
spurs. His horse leaped powerfully twice, thrice, caution abandoned,
risking everything now. The man swung down, his arm encircled Ann's
waist, he brought the pressure of his right knee to bear against the
saddle, and lifted her clear, a warm, limp weight against his body.
Staggering under the added burden, the stallion gathered himself for a
try at the wash which he must either clear or in which he and those he
carried were to fall in a tangle. Bayard, lifting the woman high,
balanced in his saddle and gathered her closer.
The black floundered in uncertain jumps, throwing his head down in an
effort to check his progress, was overcome by his own momentum and
leaped recklessly. He misjudged, fell short and with a grunt and a thud
and a threshing went down into the bald rocks that floods had piled in
the gully.
Abe did not try to stop, to overcome the added impetus that this new
weight gave him. He lowered his head in a show of determination, took
the last three strides with a swift scramble and leaped.
Bayard thought that they were in the air for seconds. They seemed to
float over that wash. Seemed to hang suspended a deliberate instant.
Then they came down with a sob wrenched from the horse as his forefeet
clawed the far footing for a retaining hold and his hindquarters, the
bank crumbling under them, slipped down into the gully. He strained an
instant against sliding further back, gathering himself in an agony of
effort and floundered safely up!
Bruce became conscious that Ann's arms were about his neck, that her
body was close against his. He knew that his limbs quivered, partly from
the recent fright, partly from contact with the woman.
Abe staggered forward a few steps, halted and turned to look at his
unfortunate brother galloping lamely toward Yavapai.
Except for the animal's breathing, the world was very quiet. For a
moment Ann lay in Bayard's embrace; his one arm was about her shoulders,
the other hooked behind her knees; then, convulsively, her arms
tightened about his neck; she pressed her cheek against his and clung so
while their hearts throbbed, one against the other. He had not moved, he
refrained from crushing her, from taking her lips with his. It cost him
dearly and the effort to resist shot another tremor through his frame.
On that she roused.
"I wasn't afraid ... after I knew it was you," she said, raising her
head.
"I was, ma'am," he said, soberly, lifting and seating her on Abe's
withers.
"I was mighty scared. See what happened to your horse? That ... You'd
have been with him in those rocks."
He dismounted, still supporting her in her position.
"You sit in th' saddle, ma'am; I'll walk an' lead Abe. You're ... you're
not scared now?"
"A little,"--breathing deeply as he helped her, and, laughing in a
strained tone. "I'll ... I'll be frightened later I expect, but I'm not
now ... much ... It's you, you keep me from it," she said. "I'm not
frightened with you."
"I tried to keep things so you won't have to be, ma'am."
Probably because she was weak, perhaps wholly because of the hot
yearning that contact with him had roused in her, Ann swayed down toward
him. It was as though she would fall into his arms, as though she
herself would stir his repressed desire for her until it overcame his
own judgment, and yield to his will there in the brilliant afternoon; as
though she were going to him, then, for all time, regardless of
everything, caring only for the instant that her lips should be on his.
He started forward, flung up one arm as though to catch her; then drew
back.
"Don't, ma'am," he begged. "Don't! For the sake ... for your sake,
don't."
The woman swallowed and straightened her back as though just coming to
the complete realization of what had happened.
"Forgive me," she whispered.
They had not heard Nora riding down to them, so great was their
absorption in one another, but at that moment when Ann's head drooped
and Bayard's shoulders flexed as from a great fatigue the waitress
halted her horse beside them.
"God! I didn't think...."
She had looked at them with the fear that had struck her as she watched
the last phase of their descent still gripping her. But in their faces
she read that which they both struggled to hide from one another and the
light that had been in her eyes went out. She turned her face away from
them, looking out at the long afternoon shadows.
"I'll have to be gettin' back," she said, dully, as though unconscious
of the words.
"We'll go with you, Nora," the man said, very quietly. "Mrs. Lytton," he
pronounced the words distinctly as if to impress himself with their
significance--"is the first person who has ever been on Abe but me....
He seems to like it."
Leading the horse by the reins, he began to climb the point back toward
the road. In the east the runaway had dwindled to a bobbing fleck.