Lynette, running like one blind out into the dark silent forest land,
her own soul storm-tossed, stopped with sudden abruptness, staring
about her, striving to see what lay before her, about her. Free! As
free as the wind, to roam where she listed. And alone! Alone with the
wilderness for the first moment since she had fled the menace yelping
at her heels in Big Pine. _Alone._
And walled about by the wildest and most impenetrably blackly dark
solitudes. She had but the one impulse; to flee from this man whose
fellows termed him a wolf; but the one clear thought, that she _must_
hasten in search of the very man from whom originally she had fled,
Jim Taggart. For, since Bruce Standing had not been killed by that
shot fired in her room at the Gallup House, she, like Babe Deveril,
was no longer threatened with the most serious charge of murder. Let
Taggart place her under arrest; let him take her back into the region
of towns and stages and lamp-lit homes; let him accuse her. Suddenly it
seemed to her, wearied with endless exertion and privation and nervous
tension, that there could be no peace greater than that of being taken
back and placed in custody in Big Pine!
Now she had to guide her but a general, a very vague, sense of
direction. It was so absolutely dark! There were stars, but they seemed
little sparks of cold distant light, blurred and almost lost beyond
the tops of the pines. Standing had led her after him, on his way to
his lower cabin, down the gentle slope. Yes; she knew the general
direction. And the distance? She had little impression of the distance
between these two aloof lairs of Timber-Wolf; half a mile or two
miles, she did not know. She would go on and on, seeking a way among
the trees; on and on and on, stumbling in the dark. Then, after a
while, she would call; call and call again, praying that Taggart and
the others were lurking somewhere within ear-shot; that they would
hear and come to her ... and place her under arrest! And she wondered,
as she had done so many a time to-day, where was Babe Deveril? Was he
near? Would he, by any chance, hear her? Would he, too, come to her?
And, then, what?
She began hastening on; to be farther from him, though that meant to
come at every step nearer Jim Taggart and Young Gallup and that other
man with the hawk face. She could not be absolutely certain that the
direction she set her course by would ever lead her to the lower cabin;
but on one point she was assured: at every step she was getting farther
from wolf-man and wolf-dog. What a brute, what a beast he was! _And
yet_ ... _and yet_.... There swept across her, like a clean, cold wind
out of the north, a sudden appreciation of those finer qualities of
manhood which his nature and his fate had allowed to dwell on in that
anomaly, Bruce Standing. His absolute honesty, itself like a north
wind, was not to be gainsaid even by his bitterest enemy; his courage,
in any woman's eyes, was invested with sheer nobility. How he had
befriended poor little Mexicali Joe; how, to-night for the second time,
though handicapped by his wound, he had gone to Joe's relief; how he,
one against three, had had his way, like a lion among curs. Wolf or
lion?... And, finally, she abode wonderingly on that queer, distorted
chivalry which resided in the heart of him, his brutally chivalrous way
with her. For, no matter how harsh and bitter his tongue had been and
no matter how hard his eye, he had not harmed her; when his hands had
been like steel upon hers, commanding her while he jeered at her, they
had not once so much as bruised her soft skin. In no way had he harmed
her while it had been at his command, had he desired, to harm her in
all ways.... She thought of being alone with any man like Taggart or
Gallup or that hawk-faced hanger-on of theirs ... and shuddered. Even
Babe Deveril; he had looked at her last night, insinuating.... She
remembered how Bruce Standing, rushing down upon them, had thrown his
own rifle away to grapple with Deveril, man to man and no odds stolen;
she would never forget the picture of him with his axe, attacking the
jail and defying the law.... Her mind raced, her thoughts switched
into a new groove: how he had set her free just now and tossed her the
revolver....
And then came the most vivid picture of all, the latest one, that of
Bruce Standing glaring at her just before she ran out of the cabin. A
second time she came to a sudden stop. He had looked like a man dying!
Too proud, with that vainglorious pride of his, to have her, a girl,
watch him, a man, die. Too unyieldingly proud and defiant to have her,
a weakling, look on while he, the strongest man she had ever glimpsed,
yielded in anything, if even to death itself. What a man he was! A man
wrong-minded, maybe; a man who overrode others and bore them down; a
man who set up his own standards, such as they were, and battled for
them wholeheartedly. Even in the matter of high-handed robbery ... he
had robbed Babe Deveril of three thousand dollars, and yet voluntarily,
when he was ready to make restitution and not before, he had returned
the full amount, estimating in his own way that he had merely borrowed
it! There was the man disclosed; one who made his own laws, and yet
who abode by them as loyally and as unswervingly as a true priest may
abide by God's....
And he had looked like a man dying. She turned her head. The door
of his cabin was still wide open, as she had left it; light, though
failing, still gushed out. She told herself that it was only a natural
curiosity, surely her sex's most irrefutable prerogative, that made her
turn and look. She caught no sight of him; he was not striding up and
down. And he had not come outside for his fallen rifle....
Her breast rose and fell to a deep sigh. Of relief, perhaps; perhaps
for another emotion. Still she remained where she was, pondering. Which
way lay the path to the other cabin, where Taggart and Gallup and
the other man were? And what was Bruce Standing doing? He had named
her "Liar!" He did not believe when she had cried out passionately:
"I did not shoot you!" Darting considerations, flashing through her
consciousness. The one question was: "Was Bruce Standing mortally
wounded?" Shot in the back a second time; he had as much as told her
that.
Babe Deveril was what the world names a ladies' man. Bruce Standing
was a man's man. And the strange part of it is that the feminine soul
is drawn to the man's man inevitably more urgently than to the ladies'
man....
And all the while Lynette was saying to herself: "He is a brute and a
beast and yet ... he has not harmed me once and he has set me free and
there is some good in him and ... and he may be dying! Alone."
She had turned her head to look back; now, hesitatingly, her whole
body turned. Slowly, silently, she retraced her steps. She came closer
and closer to the hidden cabin; the light outlining the open door
grew fainter, dimmer as the fire died down; she heard no sound; she
caught no glimpse of a man within. She drew still closer; she heard
the strange whining of his dog. Even Thor she could not see until,
lingering at every step, she came close to the door. Then she saw
both, the man on his back, his lax hand on the floor; the dog whining,
distressed, licking the hand one instant and then looking wistfully
into the master's face. A face bloodlessly white, save for one smear of
blood, where a hand had sought to wipe his eyes clear of a gathering
film.
Hesitating no longer, she stepped across the threshold. Thor looked at
her and broke into a new whining, a note of sudden joyousness in it.
Standing did not hear and did not know that she had returned; his eyes
were shut and there was the pulse as of distant seas in his ears. She
hurried to the fireplace and tossed into it the last of the wood he had
gathered; then she came swiftly to where he lay. Her heart was beating
wildly....
She saw that his jaw was set, hard and stubborn. She stood, uncertain,
troubled, half regretful that she had come back, hence half of a mind
to go hurriedly. But she did not stir for a long time, and then only
to come the last step closer. His eyes flew open; he looked up at her.
And, as the fire she had freshly piled blazed higher, she saw a sudden
flash of his eyes ... whether the reflection of the fire or the flash
of the spirit within him, she could not tell.
"I thought you'd gone," he said. He sat up; it was a struggle for him
to do so, yet here was a man who made of all his life a struggle and
who thought nothing of a trifling victory over either nature itself or
his fellow man.
"You have been cruel...."
He mocked her with his haggard eyes.
"That," she ran on swiftly, "is what you expected me to say to you,
Bruce Standing, that you have been cruel! And, what I came back to say
is: '_You have been good to me!_'"
She had not meant to say anything of the kind. But when she looked into
his eyes, when she saw the clear-as-crystal soul of him, a soul as
simple as a child's and ... yes!... as clean; and when she remembered
how she had ridden all day long while he had walked, and how he had
steadfastly refused to so much as harm a hair of her head, the words
gushed forth.
He eyed her queerly; suspicion in his look and confusion. She could
have laughed out aloud suddenly, since her whole emotional being was
aquiver; for he, Timber-Wolf, like his own wolf-dog, Thor, distrusted
her and regarded her with fierce eyes and yet ... and yet....
"Your wound has not been dressed since morning," she said quietly. "And
now you've got yourself another wound. I am going to help you with
them."
His slave.... He had commanded her once to help him with his wound....
But his slave no longer, since he himself had set her free! Yet here
she was, saying that she stood ready to help him care for his wounds.
More, already she was getting warm water, and his old piece of castile
soap ... she was rolling up her sleeves....
He glared at her through a mist. He could be sure of nothing, since it
_seemed_ to him that she was half smiling! A tender, wistful sort of
smile ... as if she had it in her heart to forget injuries done, to
forgive him who had done them, and to succor him now that there was
little of man-strength left in his body.... Curse her! What right had
she to forgive, to look at a man that way? He had asked nothing from
her, save that she leave him....
He stirred uneasily. _Had_ she smiled? In this uncertain light one
could be certain of nothing; the flickering of the wood fire, casting
quick-racing little shadows, breaking into their play with sudden
warm, rosy gleamings, made it impossible for him to know if she had
smiled, or if that semblance of a smile were but the effect of shifting
lights. He held himself rigid, his back to the wall now, his right hand
clinched on his knee.
"When I am in need of your help ... you who shot me...."
She came to him unafraid; she set down the can of warm water on the
floor; she began unbuttoning the neck of his shirt. He threw up his
hand, the right, hard-clinched, as though he would strike her in the
face; but he let the hand fall back to his side. She heard a great sigh.
"I told you once," she said quietly, "that I did not shoot you. And I
am no more liar than you are, Bruce Standing."
He cursed himself for a fool; he was tired and weak and dizzy; his mind
was the abode of confusions; he no longer knew what was fact and what
illusion. One thing alone he did know, a marvellous thing; there was
in her low voice the ring of utter honesty when she said: "I did not
shoot you!" ... Liars; all her sex, waging their weak wars from ambush,
holding their place in the world through seduction and deceit, all were
liars. And yet she troubled him, and with that voice and those eyes
she bred uncertainty on top of uncertainty in his uncertain soul. Her
steady fingers were unbuttoning his collar....
"Then why," he muttered, jeering and challenging, "did you run as you
did after the shot? And how, since you and I were alone in the room...."
"The window was open! Under it was the table, my pistol where I had
dropped it on the table. You turned your back; I was going to jump out
the window and run because for the moment I was afraid! But some one,
some man, was there; I saw his hand; it caught up the pistol. It was he
who shot you in the back! And when he dropped the pistol back to the
table...."
Again he demanded fiercely:
"But you ran ... _why_? And with the gun in your hand! Why? _Why_,
girl, if you are not lying to me?"
"Haven't I told you?" Suddenly she was aflame with passionate
vehemence. "I was frightened; ready to run; keyed up to run! There came
that shot, and you were hit; I thought you were killed! It flashed over
me that I would be suspected and all evidence would point to me and I
would be convicted of murder! Cowardly murder!... One does not think at
such a time; there is only the rush of instinct and impulse. I was all
ready to run; I had no time to think...."
"But you had the revolver in your hand as you went through the window!"
"Impulse and instinct, I tell you!" she cried. "Instinct to flee; and
to snatch at the first weapon for protection, even though it was the
weapon that had just shot you! I was a fool, maybe; and maybe by acting
as I did I saved my own life!"
He was looking up into her face queerly; she saw the savage gathering
of his brows; with all his might he strove for clear vision and clear
thought. With a new, terrible keenness, he fixed his eyes upon her;
then he said deliberately: "Liar!"
He saw the flash of her eyes, the angry set of her mouth; her hands
were clinched now, and for a moment it was he who believed that he
was to be struck full across the face. And thereupon his own eyes
brightened; this girl did not speak like a liar; she did not carry
herself like one; she had yet to show the first streak of yellow which
is in the warp and woof of lying souls.
But Lynette curbed her quick temper and said only:
"You have no right to call me that; my word is as good as your word,
Bruce Standing. Had I shot you I should not have waited for you to turn
your back. One thing I did do for which I was sorry even while I did
it, and ashamed; I laughed at you even while I sympathized with your
anger against a man who, to be little and mean, could have your horse
killed. And it was not at you that I laughed, after all ... there come
times when I can't help laughing, though there is nothing to laugh at
... it was the shock, I think ... the incongruousness, to hear you...."
She ended there, sparing him any further reference to his lisping of
which he was so desperately ashamed; once more she began working at his
collar.... And again there came into the blue eyes of Bruce Standing a
flash as of blue fire, though he hid it from her; and a sudden great,
utterly mysterious gladness blossomed magically. For, though he did not
understand and though he would never rest until he did understand, yet
already he began to believe that this girl with the fearless look spoke
the truth! And this, because of the ring of her voice and the tip of
her head, erect on its white throat, and the flash of her own eyes, as
though the spirit of man and maid had struck fire, one from the other.
"If you'll help me ..." said Lynette. "If you can sit a little bit
forward?... Your shirt will have to be torn or cut; I can't get to your
shoulder otherwise...."
He put up his right hand; as he jerked vigorously there was the sound
of tearing and ripping; he thrust the cloth down from the left side and
laid bare his great chest and the powerfully muscled left shoulder and
upper arm. Lynette shuddered; he had lost so much blood! And against
the smooth perfect whiteness of his healthy skin the blood was so
emphasized. She found the new wound....
"Shot in the back ... twice shot in the back," she said, and again she
shivered. "And you don't know who shot you either time?"
"I have my own idea about both," he said curtly. And had nothing to add.
With the warm water and soap she cleansed the fresh wound and then the
older one. Then, with gentle fingers, she did as he bade her with Billy
Winch's salve, applying it generously.
When the thing was done they looked at each other strangely; man and
maid in the wild-wood, with much lying between them, with each asking
swift unanswerable questions, with the night in the solitudes advancing.
"It's a strange thing that you came back," said Standing.
"Where better had I to go?"
"I told you that Taggart and his friends were down there. You might
have found them."
She turned from him abruptly and went back to the fireplace; he could
see only the curve of her cheek and a curl and her shoulder.
"I have no greater liking for Sheriff Taggart than you have," she said.
He wanted to see her face, but she was stubborn in refusing to turn. He
said curiously:
"Your friend, Baby Devil, ought to be overhauling them before long! If
you think he decided to come this way?"
She did not answer. He began to grow angry with her for that; for
refusing to reply when he spoke; for refusing to discuss Babe Deveril.
But he kept a shut mouth, though with the effort his jaws bulged. He
began feeling in his pocket for pipe and tobacco; he felt the need of
it....
He would have sworn that she had not looked and could not have seen,
but when he struggled over the difficulty of doing everything with one
hand she whirled and came forward impulsively and finished the task for
him, packing the tobacco into the black bowl of his pipe and handing
him a lighted splinter from the fire.
He muttered something; she had gone back to her place at the fire
and did not know whether his muttering was of thanks or curses;
her attitude would have seemed to imply that either would find her
indifferent. He smoked slowly; the strong tobacco, sharp and acrid,
did him good; a man of steady nerve, he had come to a point where his
nerves needed steadying; just now he wanted silence and his pipe and
time to grope for certain readjustments. Sweeping in all his ways was
Bruce Standing; in building up, tearing down, building up again; and
always with him was the sheerest joy in building up.... And Lynette,
for the first time in many hours, experienced a moment of bright
happiness.
He knocked out the ashes of his pipe, rapping the black bowl sharply
against his boot heel. Heavily he got to his feet. From the bunk he
dragged a blanket tossing it on the floor in a corner by the fireplace.
Obviously he was intending it for his bed....
"You must lie on the bunk," she cried impulsively. "You are worse hurt
than you seem to know. In any case, I give you my word I'll not use it!"
"Why should I care what you do, girl?" he demanded, staring at her
fiercely. "The bunk is there; take it or leave it."
Defiantly she snatched up a second blanket and folded it into the
opposite corner, sitting down on it with her feet tucked under her,
beginning swiftly to rebraid her loose hair. He turned from her to
lie down. But since he had chosen the corner which he had, and since
because of his wounds he was forced to lie on his right side, he faced
toward her. She appeared not to notice him, having brooding eyes only
for the fire; and yet she had had her clear view of his haggard face.
Thor came to lie close to his master's feet.
There were three blankets. Lynette, only asking herself curiously what
explosion of wrath she might bring upon herself, rose and went for the
third, and, without saying anything, spread it over Standing. He looked
at her amazed. But he did not speak. Instead, after the briefest of
hesitations, he floundered to his feet, set one boot heel upon the edge
of the blanket while in his good hand he gripped a corner; with one
sudden effort he ripped the blanket fairly in two. He tramped across
the small room and dropped half by her side; he went back to his own
corner and lay down, dragging the other fragment up over his shoulders,
like a shawl....
Lynette was tired almost to the end of endurance; further, this night
had been no less a tax upon her than had the other nights. Now,
suddenly, she burst into that inimitable laughter of hers, sounding as
light and gay and mirthful as the laugh of a delighted child....
"Behold! The acme of politeness!" she cried merrily. "A perfectly good
bunk and the two travellers going to sleep on the floor!"
He stared at her unsmilingly for a long time.
"I haven't thanked you, girl, for what you've done for me to-night.
I am not without gratitude, but I'm no man for pretty speeches, I am
afraid. At any rate here's this: I came hunting a cowardly sneak of a
she-cat and I found a true sport. And I think I'm done with making war
on you!... Unless...."
"Unless ... _what_?" asked Lynette.
But he was lying back now, his eyes closed. He did not appear to have
heard. She, too, lay down with a little weary sigh. Her last thoughts
were three; they mingled and grew confused as all thoughts faded.
But before they blurred they were these: Bruce Standing had dropped
his rifle outside and had not gone out for it; Babe Deveril had not
returned for her, but no doubt was still seeking her; and Bruce
Standing was done making war on her, _unless_....