THE MOVING SHADOW
“I’d rather not talk about it to-night. I’m not equal to it.
It’s—too—too it’s devilish, Paul. I don’t seem to be able to grasp it. I
can’t think about it with any coherence. I was so sure—so sure.”
Gordon was staring moodily out of the window, one arm hanging idly over
the back of his chair. He had taken up office room in an empty shop
building across the street from the hotel.
“It’s so devilish, it’s weird,” agreed the ranchman. “But your part was
great. You vanquished Jesse Black. That is more than we hoped for a week
ago. Is it your fault or mine that those fool deputies acted like flies
in tangle-foot and went spraddle-fingered when something was expected of
them? We have nothing to do with a little thing like a broken
windowpane.”
There was an ugly cut on his forehead caused by his violent contact with
the sharp edge of the window casing. He was pale, but he had lost none
of the old faith in himself or in his power to dominate affairs in the
cattle country. Defeat was intolerable to him. He refused to bow his
head to it. To-day’s check only made him the more determined, if that
were possible, to free the land of its shame.
“I’ll pull myself together again, never fear,” said Gordon. “Just give
me to-night. You see that’s not all. I’ve something else to think about,
too, now that I have time. It takes a fellow’s nerve away to have
everything that is worth while drop out at once. But I’ve rallied
before. I know I’m beastly selfish not to talk to you to-night, but—”
“Dick,” interrupted Langford, bluntly, “did she turn you down?”
“I never asked her. She is going back—home—next week.”
“If you let her.”
“You don’t quite understand, Paul,” said Gordon, a little wearily. “She
said she could never live in this country—never. She would die here.
Could I ask her after that? Could I ask her anyway, and be a man? I
know. She would just pine away.”
“Girls don’t pine—only in imagination. They are tougher than you give
them credit for.”
“But somehow, Mary seems different,” said Gordon, thoughtfully. He
surprised a flush in his friend’s cheek. “You deserve her, old man,
you’ll be very happy. She is the right kind. I congratulate you with all
my heart.”
An odd lump came into Langford’s throat. Despite Gordon’s vigorous and
healthful manhood, there seemed always a certain pathos of life
surrounding him.
“I haven’t asked, either,” confessed Paul. “But you have made it
possible for me to do so—to-night—to-morrow—whenever I can find a
chance. Take my advice, old man, don’t let your girl go. You’ll find she
is the kind after all. You don’t know her yet.”
Paul left the room, and Gordon paced the narrow confines of his shabby
office—back and forth—many times. Then he threw himself once more into
his chair. The hours were long. He had all night to think about things.
When morning came, all his weakness would be over. No one should ever
again see him so unmanned as Paul had seen him to-night And when Louise
should go—his arms fell nervelessly to the table. He remained thus a
moment, his eyes fixed and unseeing, and then his head dropped heavily
upon his arms.
Alone in the night, Louise awoke. She found it impossible to fall asleep
again. She was nervous. It must be something in the atmosphere. She
tossed and tossed and flounced and flounced. She counted up to
thousands. She made her mind a blank so often that she flew to thinking
to escape the emptiness of it. Still her eyes were wide and her mind
fairly a-quiver with activity. She slipped out of bed. She would tire
herself into sleep. She even dressed. She would show herself. If she
must be a midnight prowler, she would wear the garments people affect
when they have their thoughts and energies fixed on matters mundane.
Drawing the oil stove close to the window fronting the street, she sank
into a chair, drew a heavy shawl over her shoulders, put her feet on the
tiny fender, and prepared to fatigue herself into oblivion.
A light shone from the window across the way. He was still at work,
then. He ought not to sit up so late. No wonder he was looking so worn
out lately. He ought to have some one to look after him. He never
thought of himself. He never had time. She would talk to him about
keeping such late hours—if she were not going back to God’s country next
week. Only next week! It was too good to be true,—and yet she sighed.
But there was no other way. She ought never to have come. She was not
big enough. He, too, had told her she was not the kind. Doubtless, he
knew. And she didn’t belong to anybody here. She was glad she was going
back to where she belonged to somebody. She would never go away again.
Was that Gordon passing back and forth in front of the window? Something
must be troubling him. Was it because Jesse Black had escaped? But what
a glorious vindication of his belief in the man’s guilt had that
afternoon been given! Nothing lacked there. Why should he be sorry?
Sometimes, she had thought he might care,—that day crossing the river
for instance; but he was so reserved—he never said—and it was much, much
better that he did not care, now that she was going away and would never
come back. There was nothing in all the world that could make her come
back to this big, bleak, lonesome land where she belonged to nobody. But
she was sorry for him. He looked sad and lonely. He didn’t belong to
anybody here, either, yet he wasn’t going to run away as she was. Well,
but he was a man, and men were different.
And now she noticed that his head had sunk down onto his arms. How still
he sat! The minutes passed away. Still he sat motionless, his face
buried.
It was dark. The yellow gleam streaming out of the window only served to
make the surrounding darkness denser. The lamp on the table cast a pale
circle immediately in front of the office. There was no other flicker of
light on the street. Into this circle there moved a shadow. It
retreated,—advanced again,—glided back into obscurity. Was it something
alive, or did the moving of the lamp cause the shadows to thus skip
about? But the lamp had not been moved. It burned steadily in the same
position. The relaxed form of the unconscious man was still bent over
the table. Nothing had changed within. Probably some dog locked out for
the night had trotted within the radius of light. Maybe a cotton-tail
had hopped into the light for a second. Louise did not know whether
rabbits ever came into the town, but it was likely they did. It might
have been one of the strayed cattle wandering about in search of food.
That was the most probable supposition of all. Of course it might have
been only her imagination. The little pinch of fright engendered of the
moving shadow and the eerie hour passed away. Her eyes grew pensive
again. How still it was! Had Gordon fallen asleep? He lay so quietly.
Had he grieved himself into slumber as a girl would do? No—men were not
like that.
Ah! There was the moving shadow again! She caught her breath quickly.
Then her eyes grew wide and fixed with terror. This time the shadow did
not slink away again. It came near the window, crouching. Suddenly, it
stood up straight. Merciful Father! Why is it that a human being, a
creature of reason and judgment, prowling about at unnatural hours,
inspires ten-fold more terror to his kind than does a brute in like
circumstances of time and place? Louise tried to scream aloud. Her
throat was parched. A sudden paralysis held her speechless. It was like
a nightmare. She writhed and fought desperately to shake herself free of
this dumb horror. The cold damp came out on her forehead. Afterward she
remembered that she knew the man and that it was this knowledge that had
caused her nightmare of horror to be so unspeakably dreadful. Now she
was conscious only of the awfulness of not being able to cry out. If she
could only awaken Mary! The man lifted his arm. He had something in his
hand. Its terrible import broke the spell of her speechlessness.
“Mary! Mary!”
She thought she shrieked. In reality, she gasped out a broken whisper;
but it thrilled so with terror and pleading that Mary was awakened on
the instant. She sprang out of bed. As her feet touched the floor, a
pistol shot rang out, close by. She had been trained to quick action,
and superb health left no room for cobwebs to linger in the brain when
she was suddenly aroused. She had no need for explanations. The shot was
enough. If more was needed, there was the lighted window across the way
and here was Louise crouched before their own. Swiftly and silently, she
seized her revolver from the bureau, glided to the window, and fired
three times in rapid succession, the reports mingling with the sound of
shattered glass.
“I think I hit him the second time, Louise,” she said, with a dull calm.
“I can’t be sure.”
She lighted a lamp and began to dress mechanically. Louise stayed not to
answer. In the hall, she encountered Paul Langford, just as another shot
rang out.
“Go back, Miss Dale,” he cried, hurriedly but peremptorily. “You mustn’t
come. I am afraid there has been foul play.”
She looked at him. It hurt, that look.
“He is dead,” she whispered, “I am going to him,” and glided away from
his detaining hand.
He hurried after her. Others had been aroused by the nearness of the
pistol shots. Doors were thrown open. Voices demanded the meaning of the
disturbance. Putting his arm around the trembling girl, Langford
hastened across the street with her. At the door of Gordon’s office, he
paused.
“I will go in first, Louise. You stay here.”
He spoke authoritatively; but she slipped in ahead of him. Her arms fell
softly over the bowed shoulders. Her cheek dropped to the dark,
gray-streaked hair. There was little change, seemingly. The form was
only a little more relaxed, the attitude only a little more helpless. It
seemed as if he might have been sleeping. There was a sound, a faint
drip, drip, drip, in the room. It was steady, monotonous, like drops
falling, from rain pipes after the storm is over. Langford opened the
door.
“Doc! Doc Lockhart! Some one send Doc over here quick! Gordon’s office!
Be quick about it!” he cried, in a loud, firm voice. Then he closed the
door and locked it. In response to his call, footsteps were heard
running. The door was tried. Then came loud knocking and voices
demanding admittance.
“No one can come in but Doc,” cried Langford through the keyhole. “Send
him quick, somebody, for God’s sake! Where’s Jim Munson? He’ll get him
here. Quick, I tell you!”
He hastened back to the side of his friend and passed his hand gently
over the right side to find the place whence came that heartbreaking
drip. Disappointed in their desire to get in, men crowded before the
window. Louise stepped softly forward and drew the blind between him and
the mass of curious faces without. She was very pale, but quiet and
self-possessed. She had rallied when Langford had whispered to her that
Gordon’s heart was still beating. The doctor rapped loudly, calling to
Langford to open. Paul admitted him and then stepped out in full sight
of all, his hand still on the knob. The late moon was just rising. A
faint light spread out before him.
“Boys,” he cried, a great grief in his stern voice, “it’s murder. Dick
Gordon’s murdered. Now get—you know what for—and be quick about it!”
They laid him gently on the floor, took off his coat, and cut away the
blood soaked shirts. Louise assisted with deft, tender hands. Presently,
the heavy lids lifted, the gray eyes stared vacantly for a moment—then
smiled. Paul bent over him.
“What happened, old man?” the wounded man whispered gropingly. It
required much effort to say this little, and a shadow of pain fell over
his face.
“Hush, Dick, dear boy,” said Langford, with a catch in his voice.
“You’re all right now, but you mustn’t talk. You’re too weak. We are
going to move you across to the hotel.”
“But what happened?” he insisted.
“You were shot, you know, Dick. Keep quiet, now! I’m going for a
stretcher.”
“Am I done for?” the weak voice kept on. But there was no fear in it.
“You will be if you keep on talking like that”
Obeying a sign from the doctor, he slipped away and out. Gordon closed
his eyes and was still for a long time. His face was white and drawn
with suffering.
“Has he fainted?” whispered Louise.
The eyes opened quickly. They fell upon Louise, who had not time to draw
away. The shadow of the old, sweet smile came and hovered around his
lips.
“Louise,” he whispered.
“Yes, it is I,” she said, laying her hand lightly on his forehead. “You
must be good until Paul gets back.”
“I’m done for, so the rest of the criminal calendar will have to go
over. You can go back to—God’s country—sooner than you thought.”
“I am not going back to—God’s country,” said Louise, unexpectedly. She
had not meant to say it, but she meant it when she said it.
“Come here, close to me, Louise,” said Gordon, in a low voice. He had
forgotten the doctor. “You had better—I’ll get up if you don’t. Closer
still. I want you to—kiss me before Paul gets back.”
Louise grew whiter. She glanced hesitatingly at the doctor, timidly at
the new lover in the old man. Then she bent over him where he lay
stretched on the floor and kissed him on the lips. A great light came
into his eyes before he closed them contentedly and slipped into
unconsciousness again.
Langford rounded up Jim Munson and sent him across with a stretcher, and
then ran up stairs for an extra blanket off his own bed. It was bitterly
cold, and Dick must be well wrapped. On the upper landing, he
encountered Mary alone. Something in her desolate attitude stopped him.
“What’s the matter, Mary,” he demanded, seizing her hands.
“Nothing,” she answered, dully. “How is he?”
“All right, I trust and pray, but hurt terribly, wickedly.”
He did not quite understand. Did she love Gordon? Was that why she
looked so heart-broken? Taking her face in his two hands, he compelled
her to look at him straight.
“Now tell me,” he said.
“Did I kill him?” she asked.
“Kill whom?”
“Why, him—Jesse Black.”
Then he understood.
“Mary, my girl, was it you? Were those last shots yours?” All the
riotous love in him trembled on his tongue.
“Did I?” she persisted.
“God grant you did,” he said, solemnly. “There is blood outside the
window, but he is gone.”
“I don’t like to kill people,” she said, brokenly. “Why do I always have
to do it?”
He drew her to him strongly and held her close against his breast.
“You are the bravest and best girl on earth,” he said. “My girl,—you are
my girl, you know,—hereafter I will do all necessary killing for—my
wife.”
He kissed the sweet, quivering lips as he said it.
Some one came running up the stairs, and stopped suddenly in front of
the two in the passage.
“Why, Jim!” cried Langford in surprise. “I thought you had gone with the
stretcher.”
“I did go,” said Jim, swallowing hard. He shifted nervously from one
spurred foot to the other. “But I came back.”
He looked at Langford beseechingly.
“Boss, I want to see you a minute, ef—Mary don’t mind.”
“I will come with you, Jim, now,” said Langford with quick apprehension.
“Mary,”—Jim turned away and stared unseeingly down the staircase,—“go
back to your room for a little while. I will call for you soon. Keep up
your courage.”
“Wait,” said Mary, quietly. There were unsounded depths of despair in
her voice, though it was so clear and low. “There was another shot. I
remember now. Jim, tell me!”
Jim turned. The rough cowboy’s eyes were wet—for the first time in many
a year.
“They—hope he won’t die, Mary, girl. Your father’s shot bad, but he
ain’t dead. We think Black did it after he run from Gordon’s office. We
found him on the corner.”
Langford squared his broad shoulders—then put strong, protecting arms
around Mary. Now was he her all.
“Come, my darling, we will go to him together.”
She pushed him from her violently.
“I will go alone. Why should you come? He is mine. He is all I
have—there is no one else. Why don’t you go? You are big and
strong—can’t you make that man suffer for my father’s murder? Jim, take
me to him.”
She seized the cowboy’s arm, and they went out together, and on down the
stairs.
Langford stood still a moment, following them with his eyes. His face
was white. He bent his head. Jim, looking back, saw him thus, the dull
light from the hall-lamp falling upon the bent head and the yellow hair.
When Langford raised his head, his face, though yet white, bore an
expression of concentrated determination.
He, too, strode quickly down the stairs.