Down the long silent road beyond the sleeping town the rider passed,
out to the plains. His horse knew the trail well, was rested and
glad to be used. He stepped away into the gray dawning carrying his
beloved master with willing feet. There was no need to hurry him.
He seemed to know as if by instinct just how fast to travel to arrive
at the Junction in time for the early morning train. It was not the
first time he had journeyed thus at that hour.
The rider sat his horse as one who had entered upon a long quest
which may not end this side the other world. There was weariness in
his attitude, and profound thoughtfulness, with steady determination
to pursue his way to the end.
Now and then he bent his head and laid his lips on the cool fragrance
of a great, dim bud stuck carelessly into his buttonhole, its branch
and thorns and leaves still attached as if it might have been plucked
from the vine by hasty impulse. Later, when the day came up and
houses were in sight, he tore it from its stem and wrapped it quickly
in his handkerchief to hide away in his pocket.
The stars were paling when he started. They slipped one by one
silently into the oblivion of a background of light as he rode, but
before they left him they spoke many things to his sad, determined
soul. Sometimes it almost seemed to him that a girl rode at his side
and understood his thoughts.
His thoughts were as one would go with lighted lamp and eyes suddenly
awake to see, through the long unvisited chambers of his soul, and
find with startled senses the dirt and cobwebs and musty, dusty
corners, cluttered with moth-eaten garments of a dead past; and,
searching closer in dark crannies, find the bones of dead things that
should have lived but for the unwatchful keeper of that house.
The young face lost its boyishness and grew grave and haggard with
suffering. Then he laid his lips on the cool flower petals and heard
again the voice of the girl like music in his soul: "I will trust you
always, no matter what anybody says!" and it thrilled him and gave
him courage, so that when morning burst upon the plain and he came in
sight of the straggling houses surrounding the Junction, he lifted up
his face to the golden morning sky and breathed aloud solemnly the
words:
"Oh God! Help me to keep my vow to her, always, even to the end of
life! Help me to be what she believes me to be! Help me to be
worthy of her trust!"
With these words upon his lips and the memory of her kiss upon his
brow he went forward into the new day and the new life that was
before him. This duty that was his to-day was by no means a pleasant
one, and it might be long and hard, but he must do it in a different
way from that which he would have done it three days before, for
to-day he was a different creature. He had seen himself as he was
before God, and henceforth all things were become new.
He was in time to make all his arrangements to leave the horse before
the train arrived. He had chosen to travel across country to the
Junction rather than to take the train at his home station, partly to
avoid publicity, and partly to save time, for there was no train from
Hawk Valley early enough to connect with this Eastern Express which
stopped at the Junction. Passengers from Hawk Valley wishing to
catch this train would be forced to leave the evening before and put
up at the Junction tavern, a most unpleasant experience for any
traveller. Jasper Holt preferred travelling on horseback at all
times to riding on the railroad, and besides, every minute counted
now in the errand he was on his way to perform.
All the morning while the train glided over the level plain he was
going over his recent experience; going back to the moment when the
girl entered upon his vision and looked at him with that clear,
direct gaze that trusted him; thinking over every detail of his
finding her in the darkness and peril; the miracle that he and not
some other should have found and saved her; recalling every incident
of the beautiful, wearisome way by which they had gone home together;
and the wonder of the girl's faith in him, her love for him--his love
for her.
Any one watching the absorbed, silent man sitting alone, his head
dropped back against the seat, his hat drawn down over his eyes, the
lines of gravity deep upon brow and lip and chin, would have judged
him for a much older man than he was, so maturing had life thus far
been to him.
And now, the task that was before him was to find Scathlin--if,
indeed, he were still in the land of the living--or some evidence
that he was dead; and to know beyond a question of doubt what had
become of those papers, and just how far Harrington had been
responsible for the theft.
He loathed his task, yet felt compelled by some inner urging to
finish it. Almost his soul revolted to the extent of giving up the
case and letting his enemies triumph over him. What to him now was
his silver mine, since he had found her--and lost her forever? Why
not let his property go and leave Hawk Valley forever, where his
reputation had undone him in his greatest opportunity? Why not go to
some new land where he was unknown and begin all over again?
But his soul was too strong and true for that. He must face his
mistakes in the place where he had made them and undo, if might be,
some of the harm he had done. He had to do this whether he would or
no. It was right that he should find his papers and make good his
claim. It was a part of the true living he had set himself from this
time forth. He had promised to let people see that he was
trustworthy and this was the first step. If Harrington and his men
got their way he would be branded as a thief and a liar again and the
old reputation only fixed the firmer.
It was toward evening when they passed the scene of the late disaster
and the long rays of the sun rested over the river and valley where
peril and death had brooded. A temporary way had been made for the
tracks, all signs of death and disaster swept hastily out of sight by
the wrecking train, and the tide of travel was already rolling calmly
on again. A swarm of workmen, like ants carrying grains of sand over
a wall, were at work on the broken bridge, and the passing traveller
looked cheerfully across and got no hint of fire and fear and sudden
death. Even the trainmen had had their orders and answered gruffly,
in brief sentences, when questioned about the wreck, turning it off
lightly as a small thing, until they heard that here was one of the
almost victims of the accident. Then they looked sharply a second
time and stole back to talk in low tones with guarded sentences about
where the blame should lie. But no one knew much about the details,
after all. The conductor reluctantly admitted that the victims,
those who had been saved, had been taken to the nearest city and
distributed among the hospitals. That was all. He implied that
there were many victims who had not even that comfort.
So, on to the nearest city went Jasper Holt, arriving shortly after
sundown, and began his search among the hospitals at once, after
having visited the railroad office and got all the information they
could give him.
Three days and two nights Jasper Holt searched, in hospitals and
morgue, and even private homes. Wherever he could learn of a person
who had been through the accident he went to see if they knew any
clue to the man he sought, but not a hint did he find.
It was entirely reasonable to suppose that Scathlin had lost his life
in the fire or the river, and to feel that further search was
unnecessary. But Jasper Holt, standing at the window of his hotel
room and looking out on the busy streets of that Western city toward
evening of the third day, could not feel it so. More and more it
became necessary to find that man, or be sure of his death. The
three days of visiting hospitals and viewing suffering and death had
graven the sad lines even deeper in his fine, strong face. It began
to seem now to him that he might even have a duty toward that
loathsome creature Scathlin, though heaven knows why any such thought
should have entered his head, seeing he was the injured, not the
injuring. But the more he thought about it the more he felt that he
must search further.
To look any longer in the city was absurd. He had already covered
every clue that he had found, and the railroad authorities were
beginning to grow weary of this assiduous young man with the firm jaw
and the blue-gray eyes of steel who steadily demanded the missing
man. They offered to send him back to the scene of the accident with
a man to help him, and authority to get assistance from their workmen
to search the river and vicinity. This offer Jasper finally accepted
and the next morning was on his way back.
The last time Holt had seen Scathlin he had not really seen him at
all, he had merely sensed his presence in the darkness.
They had both been sleeping--Scathlin with the relaxation of one who
no longer needs to be on the alert, Holt with half his senses on
guard--when the crash came. Splintering glass and a rush of cold air
brought Holt clearly to himself. The car had been turned on end and
was sinking, sinking down with creak and groan; and the two men were
thrown together for a moment into the aisle, clinging to the arms of
the seats. Holt had heard the terrible oaths with which Scathlin was
wont to embroider his speech even on calmer occasions. They sounded
now like a challenge to the Almighty. The younger man had reached
out a hand in the darkness to strike the other, and had uttered a
single sentence "Cut that out!" but the profanity continued, and
Scathlin had struck him a blow blindly across his eyes which
bewildered him for a second and made the confusion more black and
terrible. Then he had been aware that Scathlin was scrambling up
over the arm of the seat to the window, and was about climbing out.
The red glow from outside flared up and showed Scathlin's bulk
against the night, his head and shoulders already out the window, the
stream of oaths not so distinct now because they were flung to the
outdoor world.
It was then that he realized that Scathlin was escaping from him and
he must not let him get away. Even in such a situation he remembered
his long quest, and pulling himself up by main force, caught Scathlin
by the foot. Suddenly he remembered the curious actions of Scathlin
the day before, and his fumbling with his shoe-strings afterwards.
The shoe Holt held in his firm grip was laced and tied in a hard
knot, but Holt's knife was ready and he cut the string in several
places. Scathlin did not stay for shoes. He left his footgear
readily in his pursuer's hands and made good his escape, but Holt,
forgetful of his peril for the moment, searched in the shoe and found
a folded paper.
It was too dark to tell if the paper were one of those he sought. He
put it safely in his pocketbook for further investigation, felt in
the shoe carefully once more to make sure there was not another, and
then climbed out of the window after Scathlin. But when he dropped
into the melee below he could not see Scathlin anywhere. There were
some rocks far below, and down there he had thought he saw a white
face as he first looked from the window before he leaped, when the
fire broke out with a flare. But after he had dropped and found
himself in the water he could not quite locate the rocks again, and
while he was searching he saw another victim drop and sink and rise
again, and he went to her rescue. So had Scathlin had his wish and
escaped from the train before they reached the region of Hawk Valley.
Holt and his assistant searched the scene of the wreck until the
young man was convinced that further search there was useless, and
sent the man back to the city. Then he dropped down to the river
bank and talked with one or two men on the wrecking crew while they
were waiting for the construction train to come and bear them back to
their camp, and here for the first time he got a clue. They had
found a man down on the rocks with a broken leg a whole day after the
others had been taken to the city hospital. Some bushes had hid him
and no one had noticed him till they heard him groaning and cursing.
A man who said he had a shack "up a piece" had taken him in his
wagon. He had promised to get a doctor and fix the man up. The man
himself had begged them to shoot him. He was almost out of his head
with suffering. Their vague description tallied with Scathlin's
rough appearance and Holt became convinced he had found his man.
Making the best he could out of their indefinite directions, for they
really had not much idea of the locality of that shack themselves,
Holt started off in search.
He found Scathlin before nightfall that same day, lying alone and
moaning with pain and fever in the deserted shack. The householder
had gone away at dawn on business, promising a speedy return, but had
not come back, and Scathlin, his broken bone set rudely by an
unskilled hand, lay suffering torments. When Holt pushed the door
open and looked in he started up with a yell, his eyes protruding in
fear. He thought that Holt was dead in the fire of the wreck, and
this was his spirit come to demand account.
It was only when Holt laid his cool hand on the dirty, crusted brow
and spoke in his quiet voice of command, that Scathlin settled back,
the terror still in his eyes, and consented to be still. He began
gradually to realize that Holt was there in the flesh, and that not
for retribution either. He had not succeeded in escaping his captor.
He never could do that. But his captor would not be a tormentor.
That was plain. He had heard that Holt was "square" with his men,
but had never believed it. Now he had opportunity to judge for
himself. And so cunning and contemptible was the creature that when
he was once assured of the fact that Holt would not strike him when
he was down, he at once set about to take advantage of it. It was as
if he had found a spot of honor wherein Holt was vulnerable, and
there upon his bed of pain, in his loathsome helplessness, with no
one to relieve him but Holt, he attacked that one pregnable spot of
Holt's fortress. Day and night he moaned and fretted. Hour after
hour he demanded this and that, whining like a baby and cursing like
a demon by turns.
The householder did not return. It is possible that something ill
befell him in that lonely plain over which he journeyed skirting the
desert; it is probable that he had had enough of Scathlin's
complaints and was glad to escape from his unwelcome guest. However
it was; Holt was there alone with him for many days, nursing him as
tenderly as a woman might have done; bearing with his varying moods;
washing him, feeding him, cooling his hot forehead. Only once did
Scathlin lapse from his role of pampered patient and beg with terror
and abject humility in his eyes and voice, and that was the day when
Holt declared his intention of going after a doctor. Scathlin was
sure that Holt meant to desert him, and he cried like a baby, swore
like a mad man, and then pleaded and promised contritely. But it was
all of no avail and Holt left him for a few hours, with a supply at
hand for every need, and went for a doctor. Scathlin's cries and
curses followed him as far as he could hear, and something like pity
came into his heart for the poor, wicked old criminal, so that he
hastened his steps with all his might.
When he returned four hours later with a gruff but kindly doctor, the
cunning look came back into the little beady eyes, and the bristly
old jaw grew stubborn and selfish again. He saw that Holt's honor
still held and he meant to get the worth of his money out of him.
The doctor came every few days after that and Scathlin improved
rapidly, growing more arrogant every day.
Holt went about silently for the most part; nursing the patient,
cooking his meals--there were a few supplies in the shack and Holt
had bought more when he went for the doctor; besides there was game
to be had for the shooting. There was something about his set, stern
face even in his gentleness that sometimes shamed Scathlin and
silenced him for a while. It was as if his mind was far away on
higher things, and Scathlin's petty torments did not reach up into
the rarefied air where he really lived.
Once when he was getting better and sitting up Scathlin attempted a
story, so vile and low that the devil himself must have originated
it. He laughed immoderately as he told it, hoping to break the stern
sadness of Holt's face, which fairly made him frantic to look at, but
Holt looked at him with a kind of pity for a second, and then the
sternness grew terrible.
"Scathlin, cut that out, you beast!" he said, and left the cabin for
the open air. It was that day that Holt had a struggle with himself
to stick to his job.
There was no longer the necessity that brought him. The papers, the
rest of them, wherever they were, were surely not here. Holt had
gone over every inch of Scathlin's clothes and possessions, and there
was no place where he could possibly have hid them about the shack
that Holt had not looked. He had watched Scathlin by night and by
day when he did not know he was being watched, and he was convinced
that Scathlin was no longer protecting any papers of his. The one
which he had taken from the toe of Scathlin's shoe had proved to be
his own and most important. What Scathlin had done with the rest he
was not sure, but it was probable that he had given some of them to
Jean with the wallet which he had, of course, recognized, when he
picked it up and handed it to her. It was also possible that the man
who owned the shack had, by some means, been wheedled into taking the
papers back to Harrington. Every circumstance made his speedy return
to Hawk Valley advisable, and yet here he was chained to this
helpless, peevish old man, who when he was done with him, would, if
he could, stab him in the back for all he had done for him.
If anything of all this passed through Jasper Holt's mind as he paced
up and down alone outside the cabin, he kept it to himself, and it
made no mark upon his face. Just as patiently and just as kindly he
waited on that ungrateful old creature, all the time seeming to live
himself on a higher plane and breathe a higher air; and the old man
hated him for it.
And so as the days at last came when the patient could walk about a
little, the beady old eyes took on new cunning, the grizzly jaw grew
more set, the whining complaints became more pitiful; and when Holt
urged that now the time had come when they might go home without harm
to the mending limb, Scathlin's eyes filled with fear, and he whined
and begged for just a little longer. For once more the vision of the
stark tree against the sky, the swinging body, the retreating backs
of Holt's strong men, haunted Scathlin's memory; and his terror
returned with each day of his recovery.
One day when Holt had gone at last to a settlement to procure a wagon
and some other necessities for the journey, he returned to find the
cunning old ingrate gone!
At first it seemed only a relief from a disagreeable task, and he
would have let him go, only again there seemed that inner sense of
finishing a task which made him go out and search. For he knew the
weak leg could not carry the man far, and he felt too that he must
keep hold of Scathlin and take him back to face what he should find
awaiting him in Hawk Valley of good or ill. He might need the old
man for a witness.
And so he drew him from his crouching shelter, spoke to him firmly,
and made a compact with him, for he recognized his fear. That night
saw the two again on their way to Hawk Valley. Scathlin was to have
shelter and food, and work when he was able, but in return he must
abide by certain rules. Scathlin, relieved and cunning still,
promised eagerly, with many mental reservations; and so the
pilgrimage at last was ended, and Holt was going back--back where the
girl he loved was staying--the girl he loved, but might not see!