ADVENTURE
It was late afternoon when Helen came down from her room. She had
regained her calm. The Judge had gone about his affairs, her aunt was
deep in her siesta, the Mexican woman was bustling about in the kitchen.
Refusing this kindly soul's offer of food, she walked listlessly into
the library and sank into a huge chair. Spring was well advanced, yet
there was an open fire. Elbows upon the arms of her chair, hands clasped
under her chin, she turned unseeing eyes upon the flickering flames.
Motionless, barely breathing, she was a picture of hopeless grief.
Yet her thoughts were active. One after another the swift-moving events
of the night before came to her--a night of delightful happenings and
torturing surprises. She recalled that the crowd had been unusually gay,
but that Stephen had been unusually quiet and absorbed. She remembered
the games, and the story-telling, and the toasting of marshmallows in
the grate. But over against these simple pleasures there had been
Stephen, entering into the gaiety only because he must, now forcing a
smile, now drawing back within himself, until a chorus of laughter would
again force him to smile. Yet she had understood, and she had excused
him. She had thought him resigned and content to be merely one of the
crowd. And then had come that opportunity which evidently he had sought.
It had come as a surprise. But with it had come also a sudden desire to
be alone with him, and to impress upon him her convictions. So they had
gone out into the moonlight, to the corral fence, and to Pat, where she
had endeavored to make everything clear. And then their return, and the
departure of her guests, and his lingering on the porch, and his
decision to go away, to leave her for ever. He hadn't put it in just
that way! But that was what he was doing--that was what he had done. He
had gone from her for ever.
The thought hurt. It hurt because she knew what part she had taken in
it. She knew that she herself had sent him away. And when he had left
her she knew, as she knew now, that in her heart she did not want it.
For she liked him--liked his society. She liked his care-free manner,
his whimsical outlook upon her country, his many natural talents--his
playing, and the naivete of his singing, while he often admitted that
his voice hurt him, and so must hurt others. No, she had not wanted him
to go away. And somehow it had never occurred to her that he would go
for ever. But he was gone, and she could not resign herself. Yet there
was no calling him back. She had made a decision, had forced him to
understand certain things. So she must accept it. But it hurt. It was
slowly dawning upon her that she would never forget him.
Then another thought came to her. Since he was going, and since she had
sent him away, it occurred to her that she ought to help him. It seemed
to be her duty. Yet she could not determine how. He was going forth to
prove himself. He would go where men only could go, and she was but a
woman. And she wanted him to prove himself--she knew that--knew it more
with every moment that passed. She believed he had it in him. Yet she
might help in some way. She wanted to be of some use to him in his
undertaking. What could she do?
Suddenly, as she sat there, seemingly powerless, there came a shrill
nicker whipping across from the corral--the voice of Pat.
Like a flash she had it! Stephen would go into the cattle country--she
believed that. And in the cattle country he would need a horse, a good
horse, such a horse as Pat. She would present the horse to Stephen! She
would send Pat with him because she herself could not go with him. This
she could do. Thus she would help Stephen to find himself, as her
ancestors had found themselves. She would help him to become what she
wanted him to become--a man--a _man_! Yes, she would give Pat to
Stephen. She would send the horse as she had sent the man--forth into
the world of deeds--deeds denied her sex.
She rose hurriedly and ascended to her room. At her desk she drew paper
and pen toward her.
My dear Stephen [she began her letter],--I am sending Pat to you
through Miguel. I wanted to help you in some way. I cannot help
you myself directly, but in Pat I feel you will have a valuable
aid. Take him--take him with my dearest and best wishes for your
success. Pat may actually show you the way--may actually point
the way out to you. Who knows? He understands who you are, I
know, and I am sure he knows what you have been, and what you
still are, to me.
Helen.
For a moment she sat deep in thought. Then suddenly awaking to the
lateness of the hour, she arose and, going to the corral, called to the
hostler. Miguel appeared, and she handed him the note, giving him
careful instructions the while in regard to the horse. The Mexican
smiled and entered the stable in quest of saddle and bridle, the while
she turned to Pat in his corner and explained what she was about to do.
"Pat dear," she began, nestling her cheek against his head, "you are
going away. You are going with Stephen. Do you remember Stephen?"
Emotion began to grip her. "You have served me well, Pat, and
faithfully. I hope you will prove as true to your new master. I--I
wanted to help him. But I--I couldn't--couldn't--" She could not go on.
Gazing up into his eyes she seemed to see him waver--knew that it was
because of her blinding tears--and abruptly left him and returned to the
house.
In her room she stood weeping at the window overlooking the corral. She
saw the Mexican bridle and saddle her pride, saw him carefully tuck away
her note, and saw him mount Pat with a great show of importance, as
though elated with his commission. Then she saw him ride Pat out of the
corral, across into the river trail, and turn toward town. Seeing her
horse go from her, perhaps for all time, she turned from the window and
flung herself across her bed, where she gave way to her grief. Her Pat
was gone! Her Pat--heart of her life--was gone!
Miguel was indeed pleased with his commission. Never before had he been
astride this so-wonderful horse. As he rode along, testing the ease of
Pat's gait, noting with what readiness he responded to the reins, he
fell to wishing that it were not so near dusk, since then he might
become the object of envious eyes in town. But he could not control the
hour of day, even though he could control the horse's movements. So he
cantered along until he reached the town proper, when he slowed Pat into
a walk. Lights were being switched on along the avenue, and in their
glare he enjoyed to the full whatever admiring glances were turned his
way from the sidewalks. But as he neared the hotel where Stephen was
stopping he urged Pat into a canter first, then into a gallop, pulling
up before the side entrance with a quick reining that brought both the
horse and himself to a stop with a magnificent flourish. It was good--as
he admitted to himself. Then he slipped to earth. And now his
magnificence left him, for he never before had entered this so-beautiful
hostelry. Girting in his belt, however, he strode up the steps, faltered
on the threshold, and was directed to the clerk. This magnate handed the
letter to a bell-boy.
Stephen was seated in his room when he read Helen's note. When he raised
his eyes he stared unseeingly at the light across the street, deep in
thought.
He knew what this had cost Helen. Riding with her almost every day for
months, he could not but understand the depth of her attachment for the
horse. Pat for years had been the one big factor in her life. And now
she was giving Pat to him, to help him prove himself. It was a great
thing to do, so great that he must accept it, and already, at this proof
of her interest, he somehow felt assured of success. Also he saw a way
open. He would go down into the cattle country, make a connection with
some cattle interests, and, with Pat as guide and friend and capable
servant, work out his destiny. Exactly what that would be he did not
know. But he did know that he was going after it.
He turned to the boy still standing in the doorway. "Tell the man that
I'll be down directly," he said. Then he made his way into his mother's
suite of rooms.
The frail little woman showed surprise at his decision. But she said
nothing. She nodded quiet acquiescence and went on with her instructions
to her maid, who was laying clothing away in preparation for the return
East in the morning. Evidently she knew her boy. Whereupon Stephen,
after explaining further, though no more fully than before, left her,
descending to the office.
Miguel was standing awkwardly near the doorway, and with Stephen's
appearance touched his hat and led the way outside. Pat was facing three
boys, the center of their interest, but when Stephen approached him, and
talked to him, he turned and responded with a soft whinny, seeming to
understand. Miguel remained at a respectful distance, awaiting orders.
Then telling him to wait for a note to be taken to Miss Richards,
Stephen re-entered the hotel.
The boys swirled off in play. Miguel stood alone with the horse. There
were but few persons on the streets, since it was early evening and
people were at supper. Miguel's wandering eyes at length rested upon the
swing-doors of a saloon opposite--rested there a long time. Finally,
unable longer to resist their spell, he glanced at Pat's bridle, noted
that the reins were securely tied, and then yielded to the attention of
the saloon. In a moment the swing-doors closed upon him.
They had barely ceased swinging when out of a doorway just down the
street stole the figure of a man. He was young, smooth of face, garbed
in blue shirt and overalls, with eyes well concealed under a black
sombrero low-drawn. He moved out of the shadow cautiously, with many
furtive glances about him. Then he swiftly crossed the street, hurried
along the sidewalk to Pat, and reached the horse's head and bridle.
Untying the reins from the post, he leaped into the saddle. Then he
swung Pat around, put light spurs to him, and urged him rapidly across
the avenue. Beyond the avenue toward the north lay Stygian darkness. In
these black depths he disappeared.
At this moment the clerk in the hotel was aroused by the unusual
spectacle of one of his guests--young Wainwright--leaping down the
stairs. He looked up with a surprised question. But Stephen ran past
him, across the office, without heed. He gained the door, rushed down
the steps, and shouted. The boys ceased playing, a passer-by came to a
stop, out of the saloon opposite stepped Miguel. Miguel hastened across,
drawing his hand over his mouth as he ran. Stephen opened upon him
breathlessly.
"He's gone!" he burst out. "I saw it from my window. A young man in blue
shirt and overalls. The horse has been stolen!"
Miguel threw up both hands in despair. "_Valgame Dios!_" he cried.
"I am lose my job!" He looked about him blankly.
Sick at heart, not knowing what to do, Stephen himself bolted back into
the hotel. He entered the telephone booth and rang up the Judge's
office. It was late, but he took a chance. The Judge answered the call.
His voice was weary with the strain of a long day.
"Who in thunder wants me at this hour?" he drawled, not unpleasantly.
"Can't you let a man--"
Stephen interrupted with an apology. Then he told the Judge of the loss.
The Judge's voice changed instantly.
"Fine business!" he snapped. "But I reckon I know who to look for.
There's only one man--one gang--in the Territory that would do that in
that way. It's a job for the range police." Then his voice softened.
"Don't worry, Stephen!" he added. "You just sit tight. I'll take it up
with the authorities."
Stephen left the booth and entered the writing-room. Here he added a sad
postscript to his note to Helen. Then he went outside, despatched Miguel
with the letter, returned to his room and sat down, disconsolate and
angry.
To have Pat sent to him with this noble generosity, and then to lose
him! Surely fate was more than unkind. The horse, given into his
keeping, had been wrested from him at once. Yes, he was all that Helen
had intimated that he was--a man incapable of trust, a man such as she
could never permit herself--and he recalled her words now with rankling
bitterness--to care for in the way he wanted her to care for him.
Knowing that Pat was gone from him, and gone in such ignoble fashion, he
knew that he never could face the horse's mistress again. This was
bitterest of all! For a time he gave way to despair.
Presently he awoke to a sense of stern responsibility. The horse had
been delivered. Miguel had safely delivered him. It was all up to him
then, Stephen, and to nobody else. He alone was responsible, and it was
his duty to get Pat back. Out of his self-doubting this realization came
with a sense of comfort. His course now lay clearly before him. He would
get the horse back! He _must_ get him back! There was nothing else
left for him. For if he ever expected to return to Helen, and this was
his life's hope, he must return to her with the horse. He could return
to her in no other way.
He saw the difficulties. This was a large country, and he knew but very
little of its activities. He recalled what the Judge had intimated--that
the character of the thieves was such as to offer no encouragement of
successful pursuit to any but men schooled to the country and the habits
of the thieves. Yet against this and in his favor was the widespread
reputation of Pat, and that certainly ought to be of some help in his
pursuit. But, difficult or easy--take a month or a year--take five
years--he would get Pat and return him to his mistress! The Judge had
spoken of range police. Why couldn't he enlist with these men, enlist in
any capacity, and accompany them till such time as he should learn the
country well enough to venture out alone if necessary in his quest? At
any rate, he would have a talk with the Judge--would see him early in
the morning. He arose to his feet. The thing was settled in his mind.
Also for the first time in his life his view had an object. He would go
forth into life, get that which it withheld from him, bring it back and
place it before the woman of his choice.
And now, so great is the power, so prompt the reward, of energy rightly
applied, he found himself whistling as he began to toss wearing-apparel
into a traveling-bag.