nights was not helpful to the task he must accomplish--the conquering
of his depression. He ate and slept long, and the following day he took
time to make himself comfortable and presentable before he sallied
forth to find the offices of the engineer corps. Then he walked on as
directed, and heard men talking of Indian ambushes and troops.
When at length he reached the headquarters of the engineer corps he was
greeted with restraint by his old officers and associates; was surprised
and at a loss to understand their attitude.
Even in General Lodge there was a difference. Neale gathered at once
that something had happened to put out of his chief’s mind the interest
that officer surely must have in Neale’s trip to Washington. And after
greeting him, the first thing General Lodge said gave warrant to the
rumors of trouble with Indians.
“My train was to have been ambushed at Deep Cut,” he explained. “Big
force of Sioux. We were amazed to find them so far west. It would have
been a massacre--but for Casey.... We have no particulars yet, for
the wire is cut. But we know what Casey did. He ran the gantlet of
the Indians through that cut.... He was on a gravel-car running wild
down-hill. You know the grade, Neale.... Of course his intention was
to hold up my train--block us before we reached the ambushed cut. There
must have been a broken brake, for he derailed the car not half a
mile ahead of us. My engineer saw the runaway flat-car and feared a
collision.... Casey threw a railroad tie--on the track--in front of
him.... We found him under the car--crushed--dying--”
General Lodge’s voice thickened and slowed a little. He looked down. His
face appeared quite pale.
Neale began to quiver in the full presaging sense of a revelation.
“My engineer, Tom Daley, reached Casey’s side just the instant before he
died,” said General Lodge, resuming his story. “In fact, Daley was
the only one of us who did see Casey alive.... Casey’s last words were
‘ambush--Sooz--’ Deep Cut,’ and then ‘me fri’nd Neale!’... We were at a
loss to understand what he meant--that is, at first. We found Casey with
this little note-book and his pipe tight between his teeth.”
The chief gave the note-book to Neale, who received it with a trembling
hand.
“You can see the marks of Casey’s teeth in the leather. It was difficult
to extract the book. He held on like grim death. Oh! Casey was grim
death.... We could not pull his black pipe out at all. We left it
between his set jaws, where it always had been--where it belonged.... I
ordered him interred that way.... So they buried him out there along the
track.” The chief’s low voice ceased, and he stood motionless a moment,
his brow knotted, his eyes haunted, yet bright with a glory of tribute
to a hero.
Neale heard the ticking of a watch and the murmur of the street outside.
He felt the soft little note-book in his hand. And the strangest
sensation shuddered over him. He drew his breath sharply.
When General Lodge turned again to face him, Neale saw him
differently--aloof, somehow removed, indistinct.
“Casey meant that note-book for you,” said the general, “It belonged
to the woman, Beauty Stanton. It contained a letter, evidently written
while she was dying.... This developed when Daley began to read aloud.
We all heard. The instant I understood it was a letter intended for
you I took the book. No more was read. We were all crowded round
Daley--curious, you know. There were visitors on my train--and your
enemy Lee. I’m sorry--but, no matter. You see it couldn’t be helped....
That’s all....”
Neale was conscious of calamity. It lay in his hand. “Poor old Casey!”
he murmured. Then he remembered. Stanton dying! What had happened? He
could not trust himself to read that message before Lodge, and, bowing,
he left the room. But he had to grope his way through the lobby, so dim
had become his sight. By the time he reached the street he had lost
his self-control. Something burnt his hand. It was the little
leather note-book. He had not the nerve to open it. What had been the
implication in General Lodge’s strange words?
He gazed with awe at the tooth-marks on the little book. How had Casey
come by anything of Beauty Stanton’s? Could it be true that she was
dead?
Then again he was accosted in the street. A heavy hand, a deep voice
arrested his progress. His eyes, sweeping up from the path, saw fringed
and beaded buckskin, a stalwart form, a bronzed and bearded face, and
keen, gray eyes warm with the light of gladness. He was gripped in hands
of iron.
“Son! hyar you air--an’ it’s the savin’ of me!” exclaimed a deep,
familiar voice.
“Slingerland!” cried Neale, and he grasped his old friend as a drowning
man at an anchor-rope. “My God! What will happen next?... Oh, I’m glad
to find you!... All these years! Slingerland, I’m in trouble!”
“Son, I reckon I know,” replied the other.
Neale shivered. Why did men look at him so? This old trapper had too
much simplicity, too big a heart, to hide his pity.
“Come! Somewhere--out of the crowd!” cried Neale, dragging at
Slingerland. “Don’t talk. Don’t tell me anything. Wait!... I’ve a letter
here--that’s going to be hell!”
Neale stumbled along out of the crowded street, he did not know where,
and with death in his soul he opened Beauty Stanton’s book. And he read:
You called me that horrible name. You struck me. You’ve killed me. I
lie here dying. Oh, Neale! I’m dying--and I loved you. I came to you
to prove it. If you had not been so blind--so stupid! My prayer is that
some one will see this I’m writing--and take it to you.
Ancliffe brought your sweetheart, Allie Lee, to me--to hide her from
Durade. He told me to find you and then he died. He had been stabbed in
saving her from Durade’s gang. And Hough, too, was killed.
Neale, I looked at Allie Lee, and then I understood your ruin. You fool!
She was not dead, but alive. Innocent and sweet like an angel! Ah, the
wonder of it in Benton! Neale, she did not know--did not feel the kind
of a woman I am. She changed me--crucified me. She put her face on my
breast. And I have that touch with me now, blessed, softening.
I locked her in a room and hurried out to find you. For the first time
in years I had a happy moment. I understood why you had never cared for
me. I respected you. Then I would have gone to hell for you. It was my
joy that you must owe your happiness to me--that I would be the one to
give you back Allie Lee and hope, and the old, ambitious life. Oh, I
gloried in my power. It was sweet. You would owe every kiss of hers,
every moment of pride, to the woman you had repulsed. That was to be my
revenge.
And I found you, and in the best hour of my bitter life--when I had
risen above the woman of shame, above thought of self--then you, with
hellish stupidity, imagined I was seeking you--YOU for myself! Your
annoyance, your scorn, robbed me of my wits. I could not tell you. I
could only speak her name and bid you come.
You branded me before that grinning crowd, you struck me! And the fires
of hell--MY hell--burst in my heart. I ran out of there--mad to kill
your soul--to cause you everlasting torment. I swore I would give that
key of Allie Lee’s room to the first man who entered my house.
The first man was Larry Red King. He was drunk. He looked wild. I
welcomed him. I sent him to her room.
But Larry King was your friend. I had forgotten that. He came out with
her. He was sober and terrible. Like the mad woman that I was I rushed
at him to tear her away. He shot me. I see his eyes now. But oh, thank
God, he shot me! It was a deliverance.
I fell on the stairs, but I saw that flaming-faced devil kill four of
Durade’s men. He got Allie Lee out. Later I heard he had been killed and
that Durade had caught the girl.
Neale, hurry to find her. Kill that Spaniard. No man could tell why he
has spared her, but I tell you he will not spare her long.
Don’t ever forget Hough or Ancliffe or that terrible cowboy. Ancliffe’s
death was beautiful. I am cold. It’s hard to write. All is darkening. I
hear the moan of wind. Forgive me! Neale, the difference between me and
Allie Lee--is a good man’s love. Men are blind to woman’s agony. She
laid her cheek here--on my breast. I--who always wanted a child. I shall
die alone. No--I think God is here. There is some one! After all, I was
a woman. Neale forgive--
31
“Wor I there?” echoed McDermott, as he wiped the clammy sweat from his
face. “B’gosh, I wor!”
It was half-past five. There appeared to be an unusual number of men on
the street, not so hurried and business-like and merry as generally, and
given to collecting in groups, low-voiced and excited.
General Lodge drew McDermott inside. “Come. You need a bracer. Man, you
look sick,” he said.
At the bar McDermott’s brown and knotty hand shook as he lifted a glass
and gulped a drink of whisky.
“Gineral, I ain’t the mon I wuz,” complained McDermott. “Casey’s gone!
An’ we had hell wid the Injuns gittin’ here. An’ thin jest afther I
stepped off the train--it happened.”
“What happened? I’ve heard conflicting reports. My men are out trying to
get news. Tell me, Sandy,” replied the general, eagerly.
“Afther hearin’ of Casey’s finish I was shure needin’ stimulants,” began
the Irishman. “An’ prisintly I drhopped into that Durade’s Palace. I had
my drink, an’ thin went into the big room where the moosic wuz. It shure
wuz a palace. A lot of thim swells with frock-coats wuz there. B’gorra
they ain’t above buckin’ the tiger. Some of thim I knew. That Misther
Lee, wot wuz once a commissioner of the U. P., he wor there with a party
of friends.
“An’ I happened to be close by thim whin a gurl come out. She was shure
purty. But thot sad! Her eyes wor turrible hauntin’, an’ roight off
I wanted to start a foight. She wor lookin’ fer Durade, as I seen
afterwards.
“Wal, the minnit that Lee seen the gurl he acted strange. I wuz standin’
close an’ I went closer. ‘Most exthraordinary rezemblance,’ he kept
sayin’. An’ thin he dug into his vest fer a pocket-book, an’ out of that
he took a locket. He looked at it--thin at the little gurl who looked
so sad. Roight off he turned the color of a sheet. ‘Gintlemen, look!’ he
sez. They all looked, an’ shure wuz sthruck with somethin’.
“‘Gintlemen,’ sez Lee, ‘me wife left me years ago--ran off West wid a
gambler. If she iver hed a child--thot gurl is thot child. Fer she’s the
livin’ image of me wife nineteen years ago!’
“Some of thim laughed at him--some of thim stared. But Lee wuz dead in
earnest an’ growin’ more excited ivery min nit. I heerd him mutter
low: ‘My Gawd! it can’t be! Her child!... In a gamblin’ hell! But that
face!... Ah! where else could I expect the child of such a mother?’
“An’ Lee went closer to where the gurl was waitin’. His party follered
an’ I follered too.... Jest whin the moosic sthopped an’ the gurl looked
up--thin she seen Lee. Roight out he sthepped away from the crowd. He
wuz whiter ‘n a ghost. An’ the gurl she seemed paralyzed. Sthrange it
wor to see how she an’ him looked alike thin.
“The crowd seen somethin’ amiss, an’ went quiet, starin’ an’ nudgin’....
Gineral, dom’ me if the gurl’s face didn’t blaze. I niver seen the
loike. An’ she sthepped an’ come straight fer Lee. An’ whin she sthopped
she wuz close enough to touch him. Her eyes wor great burnin’ holes an’
her face shone somethin’ wonderful.
“Lee put up a shakin’ hand.
“‘Gurl,’ he sez, ‘did yez iver hear of Allison Lee?’
“An’ all her seemed to lift.
“‘He is my father!’ she cried. ‘I am Allie Lee!’
“Ah! thin that crowd wuz split up by a mon wot hurried through. He wuz
a greaser--one of thim dandies on dress an’ diamonds--a handsome,
wicked-lookin’ gambler. Seein’ the gurl, he snarled, ‘Go back there!’
an’ he pointed. She niver even looked at him.
“Some wan back of me sez thot’s Durade. Wal, it was! An’ sudden he seen
who the gurl wuz watchin’--Lee.
“Thot Durade turned green an’ wild-eyed an’ stiff. But thot couldn’t
hould a candle to Lee. Shure he turned into a fiend. He bit out a
Spanish name, nothin’ loike Durade.
“An’ loike a hissin’ snake Durade sez, ‘Allison Lee!’
“Thin there wuz a dead-lock between thim two men, wid the crowd waitin’
fer hell to pay. Life-long inimies, sez I, to meself, an’ I hed the
whole story.
“Durade began to limber up. Any man what knows a greaser would have been
lookin’ fer blood. ‘She--wint--back--to yez!’ panted Durade.
“‘No--thief--Spanish dog! I have not seen her for nineteen years,’ sez
Lee.
“The gurl spoke up: ‘Mother is dead! Killed by Injuns!’
“Thin Lee cried out, ‘Did she leave HIM?’
“‘Yes, she did,’ sez the gurl. ‘She wuz goin’ back. Home! Takin’
me home. But the caravan wuz attacked by Injuns. An’ all but me wor
massacred.”
“Durade cut short the gurl’s spache. If I iver seen a reptoile it wuz
thin.
“‘Lee, they both left me,’ he hisses. ‘I tracked them. I lost the
mother, but caught the daughter.’
“Thin thot Durade lost his spache fer a minnit, foamin’ at the mouth
wid rage. If yez niver seen a greaser mad thin yez niver seen the rale
thin’. His face changed yaller an’ ould an’ wrinkled, wid spots of red.
His lip curled up loike a wolf’s, an’ his eyes--they wint down to little
black points of hell’s fire. He wuz crazy.
“‘Look at her!’ he yelled. ‘Allie Lee! Flesh an’ blood yez can’t deny!
Her baby!... An’ she’s been my slave--my dog to beat an’ kick! She’s
been through Benton! A toy fer the riff-raff of the camps!... She’s as
vile an’ black an’ lost as her treacherous mother!’
“Allison Lee shrunk under thot shame. But the gurl! Lord! she niver
looked wot she was painted by thot devil. She stood white an’ still,
like an angel above judgment.
“Durade drew one of thim little derringers. An’ sudden he hild it on
Lee, hissin’ now in his greaser talk. I niver seen sich hellish joy on a
human face. Murder was nothin’ to thot look.
“Jist thin I seen Neale an’ Slingerland, an’, by Gawd! I thought I’d
drop. They seemed to loom up. The girl screamed wild-loike an’ she
swayed about to fall. Neale leaped in front of Lee.
“‘Durade!’ he spit out, an’ dom’ me if I didn’t expect to see the roof
fly off.”
McDermott wiped his moist face and tipped his empty glass to his lips,
and swallowed hard. His light-blue eyes held a glint.
“Gineral,” he went on, “yez know Neale. How big he is! Wot nerve he’s
got! There niver wor a mon his equal on the U. P. ‘ceptin’ Casey.... But
me, nor any wan, nor yez, either, ever seen Neale loike he wuz thin. He
niver hesitated an inch, but wint roight fer Durade. Any dom’ fool,
even a crazy greaser, would hev seen his finish in Neale. Durade changed
quick from hot to cold. An’ he shot Neale.
“Neale laughed. Funny ringin’ sort of laugh, full of thot same joy
Durade hed sung out to Lee. Hate an’ love of blood it wor. Yez would hev
thought Neale felt wonderful happy to sthop a bullet.
“Thin his hand shot out an’ grabbed Durade.... He jerked him off his
feet an’ swung him round. The little derringer flew, an’ Sandy McDermott
wuz the mon who picked it up. It’ll be Neale’s whin I see him.... Durade
jabbered fer help. But no wan come. Thot big trapper Slingerland stood
there with two guns, an’ shure he looked bad. Neale slung Durade around,
spillin’ some fellars who didn’t dodge quick, an’ thin he jerked him up
backwards.
“An’ Durade come up with a long knife in the one hand he had free.
“Neale yelled, ‘Lee, take the gurl out!’
“I seen thin she hed fainted in Lee’s arms. He lifted her--moved
away--an’ thin I seen no more of thim.
“Durade made wild an’ wicked lunges at Neale, only to be jerked off
his balance. I heerd the bones crack in the arm Neale held. The greaser
screamed. Sudden he wuz turned agin, an’ swung backwards so thot Neale
grabbed the other arm--the wan wot held the knife. It wuz a child in the
grasp of a giant. Neale shure looked beautiful, I niver wished so much
in me loife fer Casey as thin. He would hev enjoyed thot foight, fer he
bragged of his friendship fer Neale. An’--”
“Go on, man, end your story!” ordered the general, breathlessly.
“Wal, b’gorra, there wuz more crackin’ of bones, an’ sich screams as
I niver heerd from a mon. Tumble, blood-curdlin’!... Neale held both
Durade’s hands an’ wuz squeezin’ thot knife-handle so the greaser
couldn’t let go.
“Thin Neale drew out thot hand of Durade’s--the wan wot held the
knife--an’ made Durade jab himself, low down!... My Gawd! how thot
jenteel Spaniard howled! I seen the blade go in an’ come out red. Thin
Slingerland tore thim apart, an’ the greaser fell. He warn’t killed.
Mebbe he ain’t goin’ to croak. But he’ll shure hev to l’ave Roarin’
City, an he’ll shure be a cripple fer loife.”
McDermott looked at the empty glass.
“That’s all, Gineral. An’ if it’s jist the same to yez I’ll hev another
drink.”
32
The mere sight of Warren Neale had transformed life for Allie Lee.
The shame of being forced to meet degraded men, the pain from Durade’s
blows, the dread that every hour he would do the worst by her or
kill her, the sudden and amazing recognition between her and her
father--these became dwarfed and blurred in the presence of the glorious
truth that Neale was there.
She had recognized him with reeling senses and through darkening eyes.
She had seen him leap before her father to confront that glittering-eyed
Durade. She had neither fear for him nor pity for the Spaniard.
Sensations of falling, of being carried, of the light and dust and noise
of the street, of men around her, of rooms and the murmur of voices, of
being worked over and spoken to by a kindly woman, of swallowing what
was put to her mouth, of answering questions, of letting other clothes
be put upon her; she was as if in a trance, aware of all going on
about her, but with consciousness riveted upon one stunning fact--his
presence. When she was left alone this state gradually wore away, and
there remained a throbbing, quivering suspense of love. Her despair had
ended. The spirit that had upheld her through all the long, dark hours
had reached its fulfilment.
She lay on a couch in a small room curtained off from another, the
latter large and light, and from which came a sound of low voices. She
heard the quick tread of men; a door opened.
“Lee, I congratulate you. A narrow escape!” exclaimed a deep voice, with
something sharp, authoritative in it.
“General Lodge, it was indeed a narrow shave for me,” replied another
voice, low and husky.
Allie slowly sat up, with the dreamy waiting abstraction less strong.
Her father, Allison Lee, and General Lodge, Neale’s old chief, were
there in the other room.
“Neale almost killed Durade! Broke him! Cut him all up!” said the
general, with agitation. “I had it from McDermott, one of my spikers--a
reliable man.... Neale was shot--perhaps cut, too.... But he doesn’t
seem to know it.”
Allie sprang up, transfixed and thrilling.
“Neale almost killed--him!” echoed Allison Lee, hoarsely. Then followed
a sound of a chair falling.
“Indeed, Allison, it’s true,” broke in a strange voice. “The street’s
full of men--all talking--all stirred up.”
Other men entered the room.
“Is Neale here?” queried General Lodge, sharply.
“They’re trying to hold him up--in the office. The boys want to pat him
on the back.... Durade was not liked,” replied some one.
“Is Neale badly hurt?”
“I don’t know. He looked it. He was all bloody.”
“Colonel Dillon, did you see Neale?” went on the sharp, eager voice.
“Yes. He seemed dazed--wild. Probably badly hurt. Yet he moved steadily.
No one could stop him,” answered another strange voice.
“Ah! here comes McDermott!” exclaimed General Lodge. Allie’s ears
throbbed to a slow, shuffling, heavy tread. Her consciousness received
the fact of Neale’s injury, but her heart refused to accept it as
perilous. God could not mock her faith by a last catastrophe.
“Sandy--you’ve seen Neale?”
Allie loved this sharp, keen voice for its note of dread. “Shure.
B’gorra, yez couldn’t hilp seein’ him. He’s as big as a hill an’ his
shirt’s as red as Casey’s red wan. I wint to give him the little gun
wot Durade pulled on him. Dom’ me! he looked roight at me an’ niver seen
me,” replied the Irishman.
“Lee, you will see Neale?” queried General Lodge. There was a silence.
“No,” presently came a cold reply. “It is not necessary. He saved
me--injury perhaps. I am grateful. I’ll reward him.”
“How?” rang General Lodge’s voice.
“Gold, of course. Neale was a gambler. Probably he had a grudge
against this Durade.... I need not meet Neale, it seems, I am
somewhat--overwrought. I wish to spare myself further excitement.”
“Lee--listen!” returned General Lodge, violently. “Neale is a splendid
young man--the nerviest, best engineer I ever knew. I predicted great
things for him. They have come true.”
“That doesn’t interest me.”
“You’ll hear it, anyhow. He saved the life of this girl who has turned
out to be your daughter. He took care of her. He loved her--was engaged
to marry her.... Then he lost her. And after that he was half mad. It
nearly ruined him.”
“I do not credit that. It was gambling, drink--and bad women that ruined
him.”
“No!”
“But, pardon me, General. If--as you intimate--there was an attachment
between him and my unfortunate child, would he have become an associate
of gamblers and vicious women?”
“He would not. The nature of his fury, the retribution he visited upon
this damned Spaniard, prove the manner of man he is.”
“Wild indeed. But hardly from a sense of loyalty. These camps breed
blood-spillers. I heard you say that.”
“You’ll hear me say something more, presently,” retorted the other, with
heat scarcely controlled. “But we’re wasting time. I don’t insist that
you see Neale. That’s your affair. It seems to me the least you could do
would be to thank him. I certainly advise you not to offer him gold. I
do insist, however, that you let him see the girl!”
“No!”
“But, man.... Say, McDermott, go fetch Neale in here.”
Allie Lee heard all this strange talk with consternation. An
irresistible magnet drew her toward those curtains, which she grasped
with trembling hands, ready, but not able, to part them and enter the
room. It seemed that in there was a friend of Neale’s whom she was going
to love, and an enemy whom she was going to hate. As for Neale seeing
her--at once--only death could rob her of that.
“General Lodge, I have no sympathy for Neale,” came the cold voice of
Allison Lee.
There was no reply. Some one coughed. Footsteps sounded in the hallway,
and a hum of distant voices.
“You forget,” continued Lee, “what happened not many hours ago when your
train was saved by that dare-devil Casey--the little book held tight in
his locked teeth--the letter meant for this Neale from one of Benton’s
camp-women.... Your engineer read enough. You heard. I heard.... A
letter from a dying woman. She accused Neale of striking her--of killing
her.... She said she was dying, but she loved him.... Do you remember
that, General Lodge?”
“Yes, alas!... Lee, I don’t deny that. But--”
“There are no buts.”
“Lee, you’re hard, hard as steel. Appearances seem against Neale.
I don’t seek to extenuate them. But I know men. Neale might have
fallen--it seems he must have. These are terrible times. In anger or
drink Neale might have struck this woman.... But kill her--No!”
A gleam pierced Allie Lee’s dark bewilderment. They meant Beauty
Stanton, that beautiful, fair woman with such a white, soft bosom and
such sad eyes--she whom Larry King had shot. What a tangle of fates
and lives! She could tell them why Beauty Stanton was dying. Then other
words, like springing fire, caught Allie’s thought, and a sickening
ripple of anguish convulsed her. They believed Beauty Stanton had loved
Neale--had--Allie would have died before admitting that last thought to
her consciousness. For a second the room turned black. Her hold on
the curtains kept her from falling. With frantic and terrible
earnestness--the old dominance Neale had acquired over her--she clung
to the one truth that mattered. She loved Neale--belonged to him--and
he was there! That they were about to meet again was as strange and
wonderful a thing as had ever happened. What had she not endured? What
must he have gone through? The fiery, stinging nature of her new and
sudden pain she could not realize.
Again the strong speech became distinct to her.
“... You’ll stay here--and you, Dillon.... Don’t any one leave this
room.... Lee, you can leave, if you want. But we’ll see Neale, and so
will Allie Lee.”