“Oh, yes, I will go out to her,” and she turned swiftly to the door, but he detained her by a gesture.
“If you will permit it I will ask her to come here to you; probably she will prefer to see you alone. I'll just step down to the mill; I wish to see Paxon,” he said.
Virginia signified her assent, and taking up his hat and gloves he hurried from the room and, a moment later, Mrs. Walsh came quickly into the library, though, evidently, with no little trepidation. She was very young, as Benson had said, slight and fair, and exceedingly pretty. She was dressed in black, but her veil was thrown back so that Virginia could see her face.
“I am very glad to meet you,” said Virginia kindly; then she made a forward step, extending her hand. “Won't you sit down? It's quite a drive out from town; do make yourself comfortable.” And she led her to a chair.
Mrs. Walsh was vastly relieved by her cordiality. She mutely looked her gratitude. After a moment's silence she said: “I should hardly have dared to come to you, Mrs. Landray, without Mr. Benson had urged it. I can't tell you what cause I have to be grateful to him, he has been so kind.”
“It was his place to be kind,” said Virginia; and something told her visitor that Mrs. Landray did not like Mr. Benson. This caused her an instant's surprise.
“You know I am an utter stranger here, Mrs. Landray; my husband came West to fill a position as instructor in Doctor Long's Academy.” The connection had evidently seemed a notable one to the young wife, for she referred it it with manifest pride.
“I think,” said Mrs. Landray shortly, “it was very foolish of him to leave you, and sacrifice such a desirable position.”
“I thought so, too,” agreed the young wife, “but he hopes for such great things from this journey to California. His letters are so brave and full of courage. I am trying to share in all he feels. It was not easy for him to go; I am sure this separation is quite as hard for him to bear as it is for me.”
“But what about you, my dear?” said Virginia. “The fortune he is to make is all in the future. What about the present?”
“Ah, that is very serious,” and her face clouded with doubt. “I shall not know where to write him until after he reaches California; and even then I must wait weeks and months for his answer telling me what to do, and all that while I must live—but how?”
“Then you are quite without means?” said Virginia gravely.
“Yes, but when Jasper left, there was a small sum of money which he had placed with his brother in New York when he came to Benson. He had arranged, as he thought, that this money was to be sent to me, and I was to place it in Mr. Benson's hands for safe keeping, who was to let me have it as I needed it; but now Jasper's brother writes that the business in which the money was invested has been a failure, and that it is lost; that there is no hope of recovering any part of it.”
“Has he made no effort to recover it?” asked Virginia frowning. It was a matter of no small regret to her that this brother had been permitted to shirk his responsibilities. She felt that something should be done to him.
“Mr. Benson has written him, and I, of course; but all he will say is that his business is a failure, and that he has been able to save nothing from the wreck. It is useless to look to him for help; I must do for myself.”
“And what can you do?” asked Virginia.
“I might become a seamstress, or a nurse, or a companion.”
Virginia shook her head. “You are not strong enough to be a nurse, and I know of no one who wants a companion; as for sewing, it is illy-paid work at best; you could scarcely make a living at that. Have you no one—in the East, I mean, who might be willing to help you until your husband can provide for you himself?”
“My aunt, with whom I lived as a child, has died since my marriage, and Jasper only has this brother, and he is on the point of leaving for California himself.”
“I should like to see him,” said Virginia. Mrs. Walsh looked at her in some surprise. “I would give him a piece of my mind.” Virginia added, for her fuller enlightenment.
“He is not very reliable, I fear,” admitted Mrs. Walsh.
“So I should suppose,” said Virginia drily
“Dr. Long would have given me a position in his academy to teach the very small children, but his daughter will do that so really he can do nothing for me. I think he was rather put out at my husband's leaving so suddenly. Of course, I went to him first. I have been very wretched and lonely—” and her lips quivered pathetically.
“My dear,” said Virginia with sudden animation, “you shall stay here with me until you hear from your husband!”
“Oh, Mrs. Landray!”
“I am lonely, too. It may be that we can cheer each other up. At any rate you shall remain with me until your husband knows of your need and provides for you. It will not be for long, and I shall be most happy to serve you in this way.”
“But I can't be a dependent—that of all things—”
“But you won't be. No, I won't listen to your objections. I know Stephen would expect me to do this.”
Just then, through the open window, she saw Benson crossing the yard from the mill. She turned toward the door.
“Here comes Mr. Benson. I will see him and tell him it is all arranged.”
She found the lawyer with one foot on the porch steps, hesitating as to whether or not he should enter the house.
“Mr. Benson,” she said in her clear, calm voice, “Mrs. Walsh will stay with me. May I ask you to see that her trunk is sent out from the town in the morning? Though, perhaps, I'd better send Sam in for it, so I need not trouble you.”
“It will be no trouble in the world,” he made haste to assure her. “Mrs. Landray, this is most kind of you, most generous; I am more than grateful,” and his boyish face flushed with real feeling. Virginia's face, however, remained wholly impassive. She did not ask him into the house, but stood above him on the top step, statuesque and beautiful, her tall figure sharply outlined against the dark green of the woodbine and wisteria that rioted over the porch. Benson stole a glance at her. His face was still radiant. This was what he had secretly expected of her, and his own generous enthusiasm leaped up to touch her's; but it met with no response.
“She doesn't want praise,” he thought. “She is satisfied to be kind and generous.” He hesitated irresolutely, but there was no invitation in her manner, and she did not speak. It occurred to him that she might be waiting for him to go, and his face burnt again.
“I will drive out and see Mrs. Walsh in a day or so if I may.”
“Certainly,” said Virginia. “Perhaps you will see her before you go?”
“You will say good-bye to her for me, please. I'll not go in.” He half hoped she would insist; but her attitude was one of waiting. He turned slowly toward his horse.
“If there is anything I can do, Mrs. Landray, I trust you will not hesitate to command me,” and he took his leave in some haste; more haste, it occurred to him afterward, than the occasion warranted. .
As Virginia turned back into the hall, Mrs. Walsh met her. “Oh, has he gone?” she said. “I so wanted to thank him.” and her voice was full of regret. “What will he think of me, after all he has done! Can't I run after him?”
“It is too late now, I fear, but he will be here again and then you will have your opportunity.” Then her glance softened. “You are such a child,” she said, extending her hand with a cordial gesture. “What is your name?”
“Jane,” answered the other, smiling happily and forgetting all about Benson; and then she slipped her arms about Virginia, and there was a moment given up to hushed confidences on the part of the young wife in the darkened hall. At last Virginia cried: “Oh, my dear, how could he leave you when he knew that?” and her great eyes, now all softness and tenderness, swam with pity. “How could he?” she repeated.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE deserter squatted on his haunches and spat reflectively at the fire; his mild blue eyes, large and oxlike, gazed into the dancing flames, with an expression of placid content. Stephen and Bushrod lay on their blankets, weary from the day's travel. Walsh was playing cards with the two teamsters. Rogers leaned against the wheel of one of the wagons, with Benny asleep in the shadow at his side.
The deserter nodded silently to each in turn and they as silently nodded back to him. He glanced from the group he had joined to the group he had just left, and a matter of fifty feet separated the two. The burly half-breeds sat motionless and erect in the circle of light cast by their camp-fire, their blankets drawn about their shoulders. The fur trader was deep in earnest conversation with them and the deserter, noting this, his face took on a curious, puzzled expression; then, with a lingering glance in Basil's direction, he turned to Stephen. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“He seems to find plenty to say when I ain't about. Mr. Landray, white's no name for the way you've treated me. I reckon I'd be mighty lonely if I'd to mess steady with them.” He spoke gratefully in a slow, soft voice; he put up his hands and shielded his face from the campfire's light and heat. “A week or so and I'll be doing my best to get friendly with father; but I reckon fatted calf won't form no part of the first meal I set down to with him,” and a shrewd, sly, smile curled his lips.
Ten days had elapsed since the complete disruption of the party, when Basil had cast his lot wholly with the half-breeds. His intercourse with his cousins was now limited to the fewest possible words. Not so the late member of the Mounted Rifles. Had he been an ordinary ruffian, they would have regretted the evident preference he had displayed from the very first for their society; but clearly he was not an ordinary ruffian. He appeared a frank, simple soul; and even his morality, which was more than doubtful, seemed entirely a matter of accident, and something for which he could not be held responsible. He came and went freely between the two camps; he treated all with the same gentle affection; he overflowed with a graceful considerate charity of deeds; and he was helpful, not alone in deeds, but words of the most winning friendliness accompanied all his acts.
“We can't be far from Green River,” he suggested tentatively.
“Something less than forty miles, I should say,” Stephen answered.
Raymond pondered this in silence but when he spoke again, he had apparently lost all interest concerning their nearness to the river. “I've heard father say when Brigham Young fetched the saints out here, he'd promised 'em a land leaking with milk and honey; the land about Salt Lake looks as if it'll be a right smart while before it does any leaking. The trouble with this blame country is there's too much of it. I reckon it'll take a thousand years to fill her up.” he speculated idly.
“Was your father always a Mormon?” Stephen asked.
“He went into the business about as early as any of 'em, Mr. Landray. He's always had a gift for religion. He's tried 'em all. He was a Methodist to begin with, but I've heard him say he mighty early got discouraged with that as a means of grace; then he took up with the Millerites, had his robes ready and climbed up on the housetop to get his start for the kingdom come. You've heard of the Millerites, I reckon.”
“Oh, yes,” Stephen said; he added, “Religion doesn't seem to have occupied your thoughts to any extent. I should have imagined, with such an example before you—”
“Me? Oh, no; I don't see no reason for worry. I figure it out this way; I always been lucky, and I sort of look for some one to snake me in and say: 'Why, how are you, Raymond? I'm mighty surprised to see you here.'.rdquo;
“They'll hardly say less than that,” observed Stephen drily.
The deserter meditated in silence for a moment, and when he spoke again it was with an air of amiable tolerance.
“Yes, sir, father was so certain sure he'd never have any more use for it, that he gave away as good a farm as ever lay out doors. He wanted to feel that nothing was holding him to earth.”
“Meaning no offence to you, he was a pretty considerable fool to do that,” said Rogers, who had been listening to the conversation, and who now joined in it.
“No, you can't quite say that, for he deeded it to mother; he know'd he'd be pretty bad off if the world didn't bust according to prophecy, and he wanted to keep the property in the family; though I've heard him say he was that sincere he'd made up his mind that just him and a few of his friends was to be saved; he looked for all the rest to get scorched up bad; but he was uncertain about having the date of the bust up just right, and if it went over another season he thought he'd like to skin the farm for one more corn crop. He's always been powerful forehanded in them ways. What was this millennium anyhow, that old Bill Miller had him so stirred up over?”
“I don't know quite the sort of a millennium that your father was expecting,” said Stephen, “but I believe the millennium is supposed to mean a period which is to last a thousand years, when the world will be free of sin and death.”
“No deserting—no horse-stealing,” said Bushrod.
“You got me there!” said Raymond pleasantly. “So that's the millennium; it's a right pretty idea, ain't it? But tedious I should reckon.”
“Is your father satisfied with Mormonism?” asked Stephen.
“Yes, sir, and it's a pretty fair sort of a religion.”
“How about Brigham Young?” said Stephen.
“Oh, they're thick as thieves. Brigham's right smart of a schemer, too,” with gentle approval. “There's no foolishness about him—none whatever.”
“I suppose you are acquainted with Young, too?” said Stephen.
“Me? Oh, yes. I tell you, Mr. Landray, the valley's no healthy place unless you keep on the right side of him. I've heard father say that even after he'd been made elder, he kicked over the traces, and they had to baptise him all over a few times, to give him a fresh start. I reckon they didn't keep him in long enough 'airy time, if I'd been doing the job I'd left him in over night.”
While he talked his glance had been continually straying in the direction of the fur trader. The latter's apparently earnest conversation with his companions had come to an end, and the two halfbreeds had stretched themselves on the ground, but Basil still sat beside the camp-fire, his pipe between his teeth, moody and solitary.
The deserter hitched a little nearer Stephen, and dropped his voice to a low whisper.
“I'd like mighty well to tie up with you gentlemen, and give Basil yonder the slip. It was downright underhand of him to run me and the breeds in on you the way he done; I was real distressed, honest I was. It'd about serve him right if you helped me cut loose; we could wait until we got to the valley, and then if you'd just furnish me with a gun—” He looked wistfully at the row of rifles that leaned against the wagon-bed, each within easy reach of its owner's hand “and if there was any shooting to be done—him, I mean—I'd do it. Of course, his being kin to you, you wouldn't just want to do that yourselves. I'd want to feel though, that you'd take care of the half-breeds until I done for Basil. You never can trust a half-breed anyhow.”
“You're not in earnest, Raymond; you're surely not serious?” cried Stephen, drawing away from him in disgust and horror. The deserter gave him a swift, searching glance, then he laughed easily.
“Well, no, I ain't. I was joking—just joking.”
“It was a poor joke,” said Stephen sternly.
Raymond came slowly to his feet. “Well,” said he, “I'll turn in. You couldn't oblige me with the loan of a rifle, if I made up my mind to strike off for Fort Bridger?”
“No, we have no guns to spare,” said Stephen shortly.
A look of keen disappointment appeared on the deserter's face, but it swiftly passed and left him smiling and ingenuous.
“Good-night,” he said.
The camp-fire died down until nothing remained of it but a mass of glowing embers. The teamsters and Walsh had put away their cards and wrapped themselves in their blankets; Bushrod and Rogers had followed their example; their heavy breathing told that they already slept. The night wind that threshed the wagon canvases blew raw and cold. Stephen took up his rifle and made the circuit of the wagons, looking closely to the mules and horses, for the first watch was his.
His mind reverted more than once to the questionable wit of Raymond's joke, and it occurred to him as a thing to be steadily borne in mind that the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company had chosen illy who should be its friends. It would be a matter for deep thankfulness when they should reach Salt Lake, and could forever dispense with Basil, the half-breeds, and the too-smiling Raymond, whose perverted sense of humour permitted him to jestingly propose a murder.
The camp was astir at the first break of day. The night wind had blown itself out, and the sombre plains were heavy with silence. One by one the gold-seekers shook themselves out of their blankets, and without waste of words began their preparation for the day's journey.
Rogers drove the mules to water at a muddy hole a quarter of a mile from camp and beyond a slight ridge. He had just disappeared beyond this ridge, when the half-breed, Louis, took two of the horses, and started after him on the same errand. A moment later Basil and Baptiste mounted their's and rode out from camp. Raymond lounged across to his friends.
“Basil says you can start on if you like; he's gone to see if he can't knock over a buffalo cow, we're about out of meat,” he explained, and then, as if in verification of his words, they heard the sharp report of a rifle. “I reckon they've found what they're looking for,” said Raymond.
“I thought the shot sounded down by the water-hole,” said Bushrod.
“Yes, they were going around that way on account of their horses. Here, Mr. Landray, let me give you a hand with them blankets.” For Bushrod was making a roll of the bedding, preparatory to stowing it away in one of the wagons; the others were busy wedging up a shrunken wheel.
An instant later Rogers appeared on the ridge, but without the mules; he came running toward them, with his long rifle held in the crook of his arm.
“I've done it!” he cried hoarsely. “I've done it!” he repeated, when he reached them.
There was silence for a moment. No man spoke, for each feared to ask him what it was that he had done.
“I tell you I've done it, are you dumb?” he cried in wild and agonized appeal, and he looked from one to the other of his friends.
“What have you done?” Stephen asked.
“I've killed him.”
“You've killed whom?”
“Yonder half-breed. Damn his soul, he'll never get in a white man's way again—he'll keep his place!”
“You've murdered him, you mean?” Stephen spoke in a shocked whisper.
“It wa'n'. murder, Landray, I swear to God it wa'n'.! Who says murder to me, I've always been a fair man—who says murder to me?” and his wild, bloodshot eyes searched the circle of white faces.
“He'd a done for me if I hadn't shot him. He came down to the hole with his two horses; I was ahead of him, but he yelled to me to get out of his way; and when I told him he'd have to wait until I'd watered my stock, he tried to ride me down. I didn't lift a hand until then.”
Raymond was the first to speak.
“I wonder if that don't save me a hundred and a quarter; they certainly ain't entitled to his share, now are they?” But if they heard him, no one replied to the deserter, who continued to regard Rogers with an envious admiration. “The eternally condemned bag of bones, where'd he get the heart for it?” he muttered.
And then a savage cry came from the direction of the water-hole, telling that the body had been found by Basil and Baptiste. Stephen turned to Rogers.
“Get in one of the wagons, and lie still—take Benny with you—and, no matter what happens, stay there!” to the others he added: “Mind, right or wrong, we are not going to surrender him to them. That would but make a bad matter worse.”
“What's your notion, Steve?” asked Bushrod briskly. “Hadn't we better look sharp for the half-breed?”
“Yes, but don't be hasty. I'll attend to Basil.”
“Say, Mr. Landray, if you'll give me a gun I'll make the shot for you.” said the deserter officiously. He was not regarded, but he continued to loudly lament that he was unarmed.
Rogers had scarcely disappeared in one of the wagons when Basil and Baptiste galloped into camp; they flung themselves from their horses and confronted the little group about Stephen.
“Where is he?” Basil shouted, seizing the latter by the arm. “Where's Rogers? You're no kin to me unless you give him up to us.”
“Basil,” said Stephen quietly, falling back a step and freeing himself from the other's clutch, “it was the result of a quarrel, the fight was a fair one.”
“It's a lie—it was murder!” the fur trader cried hoarsely. “Where is he?” and he glared about him.
“Where you shan't touch him.”
“Shan't?” he raged, his black beard bristling.
“No.”
“Where've you hidden him?”
“Never mind. Where you can't find him?”
“Do you make this you're affair?”
“I won't say that, but it was self-defence. If he hadn't shot the Indian, the Indian would probably have shot him.”
“Who says so? Did you see the fight? Fight?” he laughed aloud. “Fight? It was murder, cowardly murder!”
“No, we didn't see the fight,” Stephen answered calmly.
“Oh, you take his word, do you? Well, I don't,” and he started toward the wagons. “He's in there, and by God, I'll have him out, and Baptiste here shall settle with him!”
“Dunlevy! Walsh!” called Stephen sharply.
The two men stepped in front of the fur trader.
“Basil,” said Stephen, “we'll inquire into this when we're all cooler.”
“We'll settle it now!” swore Basil, with a great oath.
“If he's done wrong he shall be punished; but not by you, not by us; the law—”
“Damn the law! There's only one law for the plains.”
“We'll hand him over to the commandant of the first military post.”
Rogers, who heard every word that was said where he lay in the bed of one of the wagons, with a barricade of boxes about him, smiled grimly at this.
“No they won't, son,” he whispered to the boy. “You and me will see California for all of them.”
He reached up over his barricade, and with his hunting-knife cut a slit in the wagon's canvas cover. The slit was just large enough to accommodate the muzzle of his rifle.
But now Basil withdrew to his own camp, taking with him the halfbreed and the deserter. The latter went with him reluctantly enough, for he knew the fur trader was in no mood to tamper with.
The five men about the wagons waited, never relaxing their vigilance. They expected something would be done or attempted, they scarcely knew what. They could hear nothing of what passed between Basil and his two companions, but they saw that he was talking earnestly with Raymond. Twice the deserter turned and looked toward them, finally he appeared to give a satisfactory answer to what Basil had been saying, and the conference came to an end; they heard the echo of his light laugh. He turned from Basil and the half-breed and approached Stephen, whom he seemed to regard with a quickened interest, but the friendly smile never left his selfish, good-natured face.
“Well, good-bye,” he said, and extended his hand. “I reckon I'll have to go with him yonder.”
“Are you willing to go with him?” Stephen asked.
“Oh, yes,” smiling evasively. “Yes, I'm plenty willing to go with him,” he said.
“Because if you have any fears for your safety—”
“No, I'm worth a heap more to him alive than I would be dead,” responded the deserter with an air of complacent conviction. He added pleasantly. “I reckon, though, it's right handsome of you to want to look out for me, and me a stranger.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “He'll calm down some; give him time. I allow he feels Baptiste is looking to him to take on like hell, but once he cuts loose from you gentlemen you needn't bother about him; he'll be mainly interested in getting on to California. Now if you keep on about due west you'll strike Green River sometime to-morrow; after you ford it, your trail leads a little south of west to the Bear.” He looked hard at Stephen.
“Thank you,” said the latter.
“Beyond the Bear you shouldn't have any trouble. You'll strike the Weber next, and you can just follow it into the valley, crossing Kamas Prairie. I know all that country—and don't worry none about him, he ain't hunting trouble. Well, good-bye, and good luck.”
He rejoined Basil and Baptiste.