A MAN'S LOVE
It was with strangely mixed feelings that Scipio drove Minky's old
mule down the shelving trail leading into the secret valley where
stood James' ranch-house. The recollection of his first visit to the
place was a sort of nightmare which clung desperately in the back
cells of memory. The dreadful incidents leading up to it and
surrounding it could never be forgotten. Every detail of his headlong
journey in quest of the man who had wronged him, every detail of his
terrible discomfiture, would cling in his memory so long as he had
life.
But, in spite of memory, in spite of his wrongs, his heart-burnings,
the desolation of the past weeks, his heart rose buoyantly as he came
within sight of the place in which he still persisted in telling
himself that his Jessie was held a prisoner against her will. That was
his nature. No optimism was too big for him. No trouble was so great
that hope could altogether be crushed out of his heart.
He looked out over the splendid valley extending for miles on either
hand of him, and somehow he was glad. Somehow the glorious sunlight,
so softened by the shadowed forest which covered the hillsides, so
gentle beneath the crowding hills which troughed in the bed of waving
grass, sent his simple spirit soaring to heights of anticipatory
delight which, a few days back, had seemed beyond his reach.
At that moment, in spite of all that had gone before, the place was
very, very beautiful to him, life was wonderful, his very existence
was a joy. For was not Jessie waiting for him beyond, in that
ranch-house? Was not she waiting for his coming, that she might return
with him to their home? Was she not presently to be seated beside him
upon the rickety old seat of Minky's buckboard? And his final thought
caused him to glance regretfully down at the frayed cushion, wishing
cordially that he could have afforded her greater comfort.
Ah, well, perhaps she would not mind just for this once. And, after
all, she would be with him, which was the great thing. Wild Bill had
promised him that; and he had every confidence in Wild Bill.
Then he suddenly thought of something he might have done. Surely he
might have brought Vada with him. What a pity he didn't think of it
before he started out. It was foolish of him, very foolish. But he had
been so full of Jessie. The thought of winning her back had quite put
everything else out of his head. Yes, it was a pity. The presence of
Vada would certainly have added to her happiness, she was so fond of
her children.
Then he remembered his instructions. Bill had said he must go alone.
He must go alone--and be prepared to fight for her. Bill was a
wonderful man. He seemed to be able to do anything he chose. And
somehow he felt sorry he had bluffed him into buying half his claim.
He could feel the roll of bills, the result of that transaction, in
his hip pocket, and the pressure of them impressed itself unpleasantly
upon his conscience. He felt sure he had no right to them. He must
really give them back to the gambler later. He felt that his attitude
was a swindle on a good man. Bill was certainly a good man, a brave
man, but he was no business man. He, Scipio, had the advantage of him
there.
The buckboard rumbled down to the grassy trail which stretched from
the foot of the hillside to the ranch-house. And now the pale-eyed
little man bethought him of the fight Bill had promised him.
Quite unperturbed he looked down at the fierce pair of revolvers
hanging at his waist. He was taking no chances this time. He had
borrowed these guns from Minky, the same as he had borrowed the mule
and buckboard. They were fine weapons, too. He had tried them. Oh, no,
if it came to shooting he would give a different account of himself
this time. Mr. James must look to himself. So must Abe Conroy. He
would have no mercy. And he frowned darkly down at the gigantic
weapons.
Now he considered carefully the buildings ahead. The ranch was
certainly a fine place. He found it in his heart to admire it, and
only felt pity that it was the house of such a pitiable scoundrel as
James. And yet he really felt sorry for James. Perhaps, after all, he
ought not to be too hard on the man. Of course, he was a wicked
scoundrel, but that might be merely misfortune. And, anyway, Jessie,
his Jessie, was a very beautiful woman.
His eyes wandered on to the distant hills, catching up the smaller
details of interest as they traveled. There were hundreds of cattle
grazing about, and horses, too. Then there were the fenced-in pastures
and the branding corrals. James must certainly be an excellent
rancher, even if he were a scoundrel.
But the place was very still. Strangely still, he thought. There was
not even one of the usual camp dogs to offer him its hostile welcome.
He could see none of the "hands" moving about. Perhaps they were--
Of course. For the moment he had forgotten that they were not simple
ranchers. He had forgotten they were man-hunters. They were probably
out on the trail pursuing their nefarious calling. And, of course,
Bill knew it. That was why he had told him to drive out on this
particular morning. Wonderful man, Bill!
Suddenly the distant neighing of a horse startled him, and he looked
across the woods beyond the house, the direction, he calculated,
whence the sound came. But there was no horse to be seen. Nothing
except the darkling cover of pine woods. It was strange. He was sure
the sound came from that direction. No; there was certainly nothing in
the shape of a horse out there. There wasn't even a cow. Perhaps it
was a "stray" amongst the trees. So he dismissed the matter from his
mind and chirruped at the old mule.
And now he came up to the ranch; and the stillness of the place became
even more pronounced. It really was astonishing. Surely there must be
somebody about. He pushed his guns well to the front, and drew his
prairie hat forward so that the brim shaded his pale eyes. He further
shifted his reins into his left hand, and sat with his right on the
butt of one of his weapons. Whatever was to come he was ready for it.
One thing he had made up his mind to; he would stand no nonsense from
anybody--certainly not from James or Conroy.
The old mule plodded on, and, with the instinct of its kind, headed in
the direction of the nearest corral. And Scipio was forced to abandon
his warlike attitude, and with both hands drag him away into the
direction of the house door. But somehow in those last moments he
entirely forgot that his mission was a fighting one, and sat shaking
the reins and chirruping noisily in the approved manner of any farmer
on a visit.
He stared up at the house as he came. His eyes were filled with
longing. He forgot the barns, the corrals as possible ambushes. He
forgot every thought of offense or defense. There was the abode of his
beloved Jessie, and all he wondered was in which part of it lay her
prison. He was overflowing with a love so great that there was no room
in either brain or body for any other thought or feeling.
But Jessie was nowhere to be seen, and a shadow of disappointment
clouded his face as he halted the only too willing beast and clambered
down between the spidery wheels. Nor did he wait to secure his
faithful servitor, or to think of anything practical at all. He
hustled up to the open doorway, and, pushing his head in through it,
called till the echoes of the place rang--
"Ho, Jess! Ho, you, Jess! It's me--Zip! I come to fetch you to home."
The echoes died away and the place became still again. And somehow the
quiet of it set him bristling. His hands flew to his guns and remained
there while he stood listening. But no answer came, and his redundant
hope slowly ebbed, leaving a muddy shore of apprehension.
Then, with one glance back over his shoulder, he moved into the
building with much the stealth of a thief. In the living-room he stood
and stared about him uncertainly. It was the same room he had been in
before, and he remembered its every detail. Suddenly he pushed the
evil of those recollections aside and called again--
"Ho, Jess! Ho-o-o!"
But the confidence had gone from his tone, and his call suggested an
underlying doubt.
Again came the echoes. Again they died. Then--yes--there was a sound
that had nothing to do with echoes. Again--yes--sure. It was the sound
of someone moving in an upper room. He listened attentively, and again
his eyes brightened with ready hope.
"Jess! Jess!" he called.
And this time there was an answer.
Without a moment's hesitation, without a second's thought, he dashed
through an open doorway and ran up the narrow flight of stairs
beyond.
At last, at last! His Jessie! He had heard her voice. He had heard the
music he had longed for, craved for, prayed for. Was there anything in
the world that mattered else? Was there anything in the world that
could keep him from her now? No, not now. His love permeated his whole
being. There was no thought in his mind of what she had done. There
was no room in his simple heart for anything but the love he could not
help, and would not have helped if he could. There was no obstacle
now, be it mountain or stream, that he could not bridge to reach his
Jessie. His love was his life, and his life belonged to--Jessie.
He reached the top of the stairs, and a door stood open before him. He
did not pause to consider what lay beyond. His instinct guided him.
His love led him whither it would, and it led him straight into the
presence he desired more than all the world. It led him straight to
Jessie.
For the fraction of a second he became aware of a vision of womanhood,
to him the most perfect in all the world. He saw the well-loved face,
now pale and drawn with suffering and remorse. He saw the shadowed
eyes full of an affrighted, hunted expression. And, with a cry that
bore in its depth all the love of a heart as big as his small body, he
ran forward to clasp her in his arms.
But Jessie's voice arrested him half-way. It thrilled with hysterical
denial, with suffering, regret, horror. And so commanding was it that
he had no power to defy its mandate.
"No, no," she shrilled. "Keep back--back. You must not come near me. I
am not fit for you to touch."
"Not fit--?"
Scipio stared helplessly at her, his eyes settling uncertainly upon
her hands as though he expected to find upon them signs of some work
she might have been engaged upon--some work that left her, as she had
said, unfit to touch. His comprehension was never quick. His
imagination was his weakest point.
Then his eyes came to her well-loved face again, and he shook his
head.
"You--you got me beat, Jess. I--"
"Ah, Zip, Zip!" Suddenly Jessie's hands went up to her face and her
eyes were hidden. It was the movement of one who fears to witness the
hatred, the loathing, the scorn which her own accusing mind assures
her she merits. It was the movement of one whose heart was torn by
remorse and shame, whose eyes were open to her sins, and who realizes
that earthly damnation is her future lot. Her bosom heaved, and dry
sobs choked her. And the little man, who had come so far to claim her,
stood perplexed and troubled.
At last he struggled out a few words, longing to console, but scarcely
understanding how to go about it. All he understood was that she was
ill and suffering.
"Say, Jess, you mustn't to cry," he said wistfully. "Ther' ain't
nothin' to set you cryin'. Ther' sure ain't--"
But a woman's hysteria was a thing unknown to him, and his gentle
attempt was swept aside in a torrent of insensate denial.
"No, no! Don't come near me," she cried in a harsh, strident tone.
"Leave me. Leave me to my misery. Don't dare to come here mocking me.
Don't dare to accuse me. Who are you to accuse? You are no better than
me. You have no right to come here as my judge. You, with your smooth
ways, your quiet sneers. Don't you dare! Don't you dare! I'm no longer
your wife, so you have no right. I'm his--his. Do you understand? I'm
his. I shall live the life I choose, and you shall not molest me. I
know you. You've come to accuse me, to tell me all I am, to tax me
with my shame. It's cruel--cruel. Oh, God, help me--help me!"
The woman's voice died out in a piteous wail that smote straight to
the heart of the little man who stood shaking before her hysterical
outbreak. He knew not what to do. His love prompted him to go to her
and crush her to his simple, loving heart, but somehow he found
himself unable to do anything but gaze with longing eyes upon the
heart-broken figure, as she leant upon the foot-rail of the bed.
He stirred. And in the moments that passed while his eyes were fixed
upon her rich, heaving bosom, his mind groping vaguely, he became
aware of everything about him. He knew he was in her bedroom. He knew
that the furnishings were good. He knew that the sunlight was pouring
in through the open window, and that a broad band of dazzling light
was shining upon her lustrous dark hair. He knew all these things in
the same way that he knew she was suffering so that she came near
breaking his own sympathetic heart.
But though his intellect failed him, and he had no idea of what he
ought to say or do, words came at last and tumbled headlong from his
lips, just as they were inspired, all unconsidered, by his heart.
"Say, Jessie gal," he cried in a softly persuasive tone, "won't you
come to home--an'--an' help me out? Won't you, gal?"
But he was given no time to complete his appeal. The woman suddenly
raised her face, and once more broke out in hysterical fury.
"Home? Home? With you?" she cried. "Ha, ha! That's too good! Home,
with you to forever remind me what I am? For you to sneer at me, and
point me to your friends for what I am? Never, never! Go you back
where you came from. I'm not a wife. Do you hear? God help me, I'm--"
And she buried her face again upon her arms.
"Won't you come to home, gal?" the man persisted. "Won't you? I'm so
desp'rit lonesome. An' the kids, too. Gee! they're jest yearnin' an'
yearnin' for you--nigh as bad as me."
He took a step towards her with his arms outstretched. All his soul
was in his mild eyes. And presently Jessie raised her head again. She
stood staring at the wall opposite her. It was as though she dared not
face him. Her eyes were burning, but they were less wild, and a sudden
hope thrilled the man's heart. He hurried on, fearful lest the old
storm should break out again--
"Y'see, Jess, ther' ain't nuthin' to our pore little shack on the
'dumps' without you. Ther' sure ain't. Then ther's my claim. I sold
ha'f. An'--an' I got money now--I--"
The woman's eyes turned slowly upon him. They were red with unshed
tears. Their expression was curious. There was doubt and shrinking in
them. It almost seemed as if she were wondering if all the past days
of regret and longing had turned her brain, and she were listening to
words conjured by a distorted fancy, some insane delusion. She could
not believe. But Scipio continued, and his voice was real enough.
"I--know I ain't much of a feller for the likes of you, Jess," he said
earnestly. "I ain't quick. I ain't jest bright. But I do love you, my
dear. I love you so I can't think nothin' else. I want you to home,
Jess, that bad, I thank God ev'ry day He give you to me. I want you so
bad it don't seem you ever bin away from me. I want you that bad I
can't remember the last week or so. You'll come--to home, gal--now?
Think--jest think o' them bits o' twins. You wait till you see 'em
laff when they get eyes on you. Say, they're that bonny an' bright.
They're jest like you, wi' their eyes all a-sparklin', an' their
cheeks that rosy. Gee! they're jest a-yearnin' an' a-callin' fer their
mam--same as me."
The little man had moved another step nearer. His arms were still
outstretched, and his quaint face was all aglow with the warmth and
love that stirred him. Somewhere in the back of his dull head he knew
that he was pleading for something more than his life. He had no
subtlety in his manner or his words. It was just his heart talking for
him and guiding him.
And in the woman had risen a sudden hope. It was a struggling ray of
light in the blackness of her despair. It was a weak struggling
flicker--just a flicker. And even as it rose its power was dashed
again in the profundity of her suffering. She could not grasp the hand
held out--she could not see it. She could not believe the words her
ears heard.
"No, no, don't mock at me," she cried, with a sudden return to her old
wildness. "It is cruel, cruel! Leave me. For pity's sake go. How can
you stand there taunting me so? How can I go with you? How can I face
my children now? Do you know what I am? No, no, of course you don't.
You could never understand. You, with your foolish, simple mind. Shall
I tell you what I am? Shall I say it? Shall I--"
But the man's hand went up and held her silent.
"You don't need to say nothing, Jess," he said in his mildest tone.
"You don't need to, sure. Whatever you are, you're all the world to
me--jest all."
With a sudden cry the woman's head dropped upon her outspread arms,
and the merciful tears, so long denied her, gushed forth. Her body
heaved, and it seemed to the distraught man that her poor heart must
be breaking. He did not know what those tears meant to her. He did not
know that the victory of his love was very, very near. Only he saw her
bowed in passionate distress, and he had no thought of how to comfort
her.
He waited, waited. But the flood once broken loose must needs spend
itself. Such is the way with women, of whom he had so small an
understanding. He turned away to the window. He stared with unseeing
eyes at the fair picture of the beautiful valley. The moments
passed--long, dreary moments rapidly changing to minutes. And then at
last the storm began to die down, and he turned again towards her and
drew a step nearer.
"Jess--Jess," he murmured.
Then he took another hesitating step.
But his words seemed to have started her tears afresh, and into his
eyes came that painful perplexity again.
Again he ventured, and his step this time brought him close to her
side.
"Jess, gal--Jess," he pleaded, with infinite tenderness.
And as the woman continued to sob he stole one arm gently about her
waist. She made no move. Only her shaking body calmed, and her tears
became more silent.
He strove to draw her towards him, but she clung to the bed-rail with
almost child-like persistence, as though she dared not permit herself
the hope his encircling arms inspired. But she had not rebuffed him,
so with some assertion he thrust his other arm about her, and,
exerting force, deliberately turned her towards him.
"Say, don't you to cry, lass," he whispered softly. "Don't you, now.
It jest makes me sore right through. It jest makes me feel all of a
choke, an'--an' I want to cry, too. Say, gal, I love you good. I do,
Jess--I sure do. Ther' ain't nothin' in the world I wouldn't do to
stop them tears. Come to home, gal--come to home."
And as he finished speaking he drew her dark head down to his breast,
and laid his thin cheek against her wealth of hair. And, pressing her
to the home that was for all time hers, his own eyes filled with tears
which slowly rolled down his cheeks and mingled themselves with hers.