THE STORM
Will Corliss, riding through the timberlands toward the west, shivered
as a drop of rain touched his hand. He glanced up through the trees.
The sky seemed clouded to the level of the pine-tops. He spurred his
horse as he again felt a spatter of rain. Before him lay several miles
of rugged trail leading to an open stretch across which he would again
enter the timber on the edge of the hollow where Soper's cabin was
concealed. When Corliss had suggested Soper's place as a rendezvous,
Fadeaway had laughed to himself, knowing that old man Soper had been
driven from the country by a committee of irate ranchers. The illicit
sale of whiskey to the cowboys of the Concho Valley had been the cause
of Soper's hurried evacuation. The cabin had been burned to the
ground. Fadeaway knew that without Soper's assistance Corliss would be
unable to get to the railroad--would be obliged either to return to the
Concho or starve on the empty mesas.
Corliss bent his head as the rain drove faster. When he arrived at the
edge of the mesa, the storm had increased to a steady dull roar of
rushing rain. He hesitated to face the open and reined up beneath a
spruce. He was drenched and shivered. The fever of drink had died out
leaving him unstrung and strangely fearful of the night. His horse
stood with lowered head, its storm-blown mane whipping in the wind like
a wet cloth. A branch riven from a giant pine crashed down behind him.
Corliss jerked upright in the saddle, and the horse, obeying the
accidental touch of the spurs, plodded out to the mesa with head held
sideways.
The rider's hands grew numb and he dropped the reins over the horn and
shoved his hands in his pockets. Unaccustomed to riding he grew weary
and, despite the storm, he drowsed, to awaken with a start as gusts of
wind swept against his face. He raised his dripping hat and shook the
water from it. Then he crouched shivering in the saddle. He cursed
himself for a fool and longed for shelter and the warmth of a fire.
Slowly a feeling of helplessness stole over him and he pictured himself
returning to the Concho and asking forgiveness of his brother. Yet he
kept stubbornly on, glancing ahead from time to time until at last he
saw the dim edge of the distant timber--a black line against the
darkness. He urged his horse to a trot, and was all but thrown as the
animal suddenly avoided a prairie-dog hole. The sweep of the storm was
broken as he entered the farther timber. Then came the muffled roll of
thunder and an instant white flash. The horse reared as a bolt struck
a pine. Came the ghastly whistle of flying splinters as the tree was
shattered. Corliss grabbed the saddle-horn as the horse bolted through
the timberlands, working against the curb to reach the open. Once more
on the trail the animal quieted. They topped a gentle rise. Corliss
breathed his relief. Soper's cabin was in the hollow below them.
Cautiously the horse worked sideways down the ridge, slipping and
checking short as the loose stones slithered beneath his feet. At the
bottom of the hollow Corliss reined up and shouted. The wind whipped
his call to a thin shred of sound that was swept away in the roar of
the storm. Again he shouted. As though in answer there came a burning
flash of blue. The dripping trees surrounding the hollow jumped into
view to be blotted from sight as the succeeding crash of thunder
diminished to far titanic echoes. Where Soper's cabin had stood there
was a wet, glistening heap of fallen logs and rafters, charred and
twisted. The lightning flash had revealed more to the rider than the
desolation of the burned and abandoned homestead. He saw with instant
vividness the wrecked framework of his own plans. He heard the echo of
Fadeaway's sneering laugh in the fury of the wind. He told himself
that he had been duped and that he deserved it. Lacking physical
strength to carry him through to a place of tentative safety, he gave
up, and credited his sudden regret to true repentance rather than to
weakness. He would return to the Concho, knowing that his brother
would forgive him. He wept as he thought of his attitude of the
repentant and broken son returning in sorrow to atone for his sin and
shame. He magnified his wrongdoing to heroic proportions endeavoring
to filch some sentimental comfort from the romantic. He it was that
needed the sympathy of the world and not his brother John; John was a
plodder, a clod, good enough, but incapable of emotion, or the finer
feelings. And Eleanor Loring . . . she could have saved him from all
this. He had begun well; had written acceptable verse . . . then had
come her refusal to marry him. What a fool he had been through it all!
The wind and rain chastised his emotional intoxication, and he turned
shivering to look for shelter. Dismounting, he crept beneath a low
spruce and shivered beneath the scant covering of his saddle-blanket.
To-morrow the sun would shine on a new world. He would arise and
conquer his temptation. As he drifted to troubled sleep he knew, deep
in his heart, that despite his heroics he would at that moment have
given the little canvas sack of his brother's money for the
obliterating warmth of intoxication.
With the morning sun he rose and saddled. About to mount, his
stiffened muscles blundered. He slipped and fell. The horse, keen
with hunger, jumped away from him and trotted down the trail. He
followed shouting. His strength gave out and he gave up the chase,
wondering where the horse would go. Stumbling along the slippery
trail, he cursed his clumsiness. A chill sweat gathered on his face.
His legs trembled and he was forced to rest frequently. Crossing a
stream, he stooped and drank. Then he toiled on, eagerly scanning the
hoof-prints in the rain-gutted trail.
The sun was high when he arrived at the wagon-road above the Concho.
Dazed and weak, he endeavored to determine which direction the horse
had taken. The heat of the sun oppressed him. He became faint, and,
crawling beneath the shade of a wayside fir, he rested, promising
himself that he would, when the afternoon shadows drifted across the
road, make his way to the Concho. He had slept little more than an
hour when the swift patter of hoofs wakened him. As he got to his
feet, a buckboard, drawn by a pair of pinto range-ponies, drew up.
Corliss started back. The Mexican driving the ponies turned toward the
sweet-faced Spanish woman beside him as though questioning her
pleasure. She spoke in quick, low accents. He cramped the wagon and
she stepped to the road. The Señora Loring, albeit having knowledge of
his recent return to Antelope, his drinking, and all the unsavory
rumors connected with his return, greeted Corliss as a mother greets a
wayward son. She set all this knowledge aside and spoke to him with
the placid wisdom of her years and nature. Her gentle solicitude
touched him. She had been his foster-mother in those years that he and
his brother had known no other fostering hand than that of old Hi
Wingle, the cook, whose efforts to "raise" the Corliss boys were more
largely faithful than discriminating.
Señora Loring knew at a glance that he was in trouble of some kind.
She asked no questions, but held out her hands.
Corliss, blind with tears, dropped to his knee: "Madre! Madre!" he
cried.
She patted his head. "You come with me. Then perhaps you have to say
to me that which now you do not say."
He shook his head, but she paid no attention, leading the way to the
buckboard. He climbed beside the driver, then with an ejaculation of
apology, leaped to the road and helped her in.
"Where you would like to go?" she asked. "The Concho?"
Again he shook his head. "I can't. I--"
She questioned his hesitation with her eyes.
"I'll tell you when--when I feel better. Madre, I'm sick."
"I know," she said.
Then, turning to the driver, she gestured down the wagon-trail.
They drove through the morning woodlands, swung to the east, and
crossed the ford. The clustered adobes of the Loring homestead
glimmered in the sun. Corliss glanced across the river toward the
Concho. Again the Señora Loring questioned him with a glance.
He shook his head. "Away--anywhere," he said, gesturing toward the
horizon.
"You come home with me," she said quietly. "Nellie is not at the home
to-day. You rest, and then perhaps you go to the Concho."
As they entered the gateway of the Loring rancho, Corliss made as
though to dismount. The Señora Loring touched his arm. He shrugged
his shoulders; then gazed ahead at the peaceful habitation of the old
sheep-herder.
The Señora told the driver to tie the team and wait. Then she entered
the house. Corliss gazed about the familiar room while she made
coffee. Half starved, he ate ravenously the meal she prepared for him.
Later, when she came and sat opposite, her plump hands folded in her
lap, her whole attitude restful and assuring, he told her of the
robbery, concealing nothing save the name of Fadeaway.
Then he drew the canvas sack from his pocket. "I thought I could go
back and face it out, but now, I can't. Will you--return it--and--tell
John?"
She nodded. "Si! If you wish it so, my son. You would not do that as
I would tell you--so I say nothing. I can only--what you say--help,
with my hands," and she gestured gracefully as though leading a child.
"You have money to go away?"
"No, madre."
"Then I give you the money." And the Señora, ignoring his half-hearted
protests, stepped to an adjoining room and returned. "Here is this to
help you go. Some day you come back strong and like your father the
big John Corliss. Then I shall be much glad."
"I'll pay it back. I'll do anything--"
But she silenced him, touching his lips with her fingers. "No. The
promise to make is not so hard, but to keep . . . Ah! When you come
back, then you promise; si?"
Not a word of reproof, not a glance or a look of disapproval, yet
Corliss knew that the Señora's heart was heavy with sorrow for him. He
strode to the doorway. Señora Loring followed and called to the
driver. As Corliss shook hands with her, she kissed him.
An anger against himself flushed his cheek. "I don't know which road
I'll take, madre,--after I leave here,--this country. But I shall
always remember . . . And tell Nell . . . that . . ." he hesitated.
The Señora smiled and patted his arm. "Si! I understand."
"And, madre, there is a man--vaquero, or cook, a big man, tall, that
they call Sundown, who works for the Concho. If you see him, please
tell him--that I sent it back." And he gestured toward the table
whereon lay the little canvas sack of gold. "Good-bye!"
He stepped hurriedly from the veranda, climbed to the seat of the
buckboard, and spoke to the driver. For a long time the Señora stood
in the doorway watching the glint of the speeding ponies. Then she
went to her bedroom and knelt before the little crucifix. Her prayer
was, strangely enough, not for Will Corliss. She prayed that the sweet
Madonna would forgive her if she had done wrong.