While the events in the preceding chapter were taking place, upstairs
in the room given to Muriel and Dora a very different state of affairs
existed. Dora, young as she was, was literally worn out from the
unaccustomed fatigue, lack of her regular meals, and made dull and
languid by the sleeping-potion which Pierson had forced Muriel to give
her. So the poor girl fell heavily on the bed and slept almost at once.
Muriel was glad of this, for it kept her mind continually on the alert
trying to answer Dora’s questions as to where Bennie and her father
were. The young girl, with Bennie’s name upon her lips, constantly kept
Muriel in a nervous tremor. Muriel knew well that Pierson intended to
kill Dora as soon as he could do so with safety, and she was also well
aware of what he intended to do with herself, for she understood his
vicious nature as his own mother never had.
So Muriel kept always on the alert to watch for John’s murderous
intentions, scarcely ate and was afraid to sleep, lest he should come,
with his fell determination, and kill them both while asleep.
So weary was Dora that she knew nothing of the noise in the bar-room
just beneath her. Muriel heard the shots plainly, but, hearing the
noisy bursts of laughter, she judged the matter rightly. She knew
something of the habits of the rough but good-hearted men in this
region. She was much more afraid of John Pierson and his villainous
ally, Dopey, than of all the wildest cowboys or miners in the State.
Toward dusk Dora opened her eyes, to find Muriel beside her, watching
lest she should awaken and try to run away. Dora clung to Muriel as her
only friend, and the more helpless she grew, the more Muriel loved her.
The conscience that had so long lain dormant or stifled now made its
presence known, and the great mystery of an awakening soul was taking
place in Muriel. She went over each lawless act of her life in her
mind, and with each fresh remembrance she quailed in horror at herself.
Now she was like a mother being robbed of her child. John Pierson could
not harm Dora without first killing her--on that she was determined.
She had given Dora the potion more for the child’s own sake than at
John’s orders, for without it Dora might have become violent, and so it
would have brought matters to a climax, and one full of danger.
Muriel had tried twice to send a telegram to Dora’s father, but had
been thwarted, so now all she could do was to watch over her.
As a last resort, Muriel resolved, in case of immediate danger, to
appeal to the genuine chivalry of the men about. True, John would
probably kill her, but what was her wrecked life worth? At least she
could save the girl!
Dora’s love for Bennie was so innocent and trustful that it touched
Muriel immeasurably, and it was still another reason why she must save
the child, for so Dora was to this world-weary woman.
As Dora awoke, she sat up, saying:
“Oh, where did father and Bennie go? They were here just now. Oh, why
didn’t you stop them? Oh, I want my father, my good father!”
At that moment Dora’s father was being covered comfortably by Shoshone
and Loney not one hundred yards from where she was wailing for him.
“There, dearie. Don’t worry. We will soon find them. Don’t you want
something to eat? You can have a nice, warm supper now in a little
while. Come, let me fix your hair and bathe your face and hands.”
“Do you think they will get here soon? I don’t see why they stay so.
They must know that I am frightened. Father never left me alone so
long.”
For the time being, Dora seemed to have forgotten Loney.
Muriel combed and dressed Dora’s thick, dark hair, comforting and
consoling her with tender words all the while, until, bathed and
refreshed, she waited with Muriel for supper. Indeed they needed it, as
Pierson had kept them on the road for many hours on foot, making them
climb ridges, and walk over arid stretches, until they were exhausted.
He did not wish to travel in the usual manner, as it would have been
too public, and some one might recognize him, Muriel or Dora. Of Dopey
he had no fear, for the lives of such as Dopey are like those of the
rats--mostly underground and out of sight.
And it was part of his plan to half-starve both Muriel and Dora, but,
being in the “hotel,” he dared not give rise to suspicion by neglecting
to order food for them.
“Mr. Duffy,” said John, “my wife and daughter are so worn out with the
trip that I would beg you to send their supper to their room, if it
can be done.”
“Certainly it can be done, if it takes the whole outfit. I hope the
young lady is better.”
“I fear she never will be better. Her last chance is the solitude of
the mountains, and the air.”
“Did you come over in the stage?”
“No, we had a rig from--from--I don’t know what the name of the place
is, but my daughter is so tender-hearted--and so difficult to manage
sometimes--that she could not bear to see the horses pulling so, and
insisted on walking. The driver told us the place was just over the
rise, so--we walked, and it _was_ a walk!”
“I should think so. You will have your supper down here, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes; my man and I. This does seem to be a lively place, if I could
judge by some certain sounds during the afternoon.”
“That was nothing, only the boys having some fun with a tenderfoot. You
never saw such an outfit. A Jew with a horse--well, every boy on the
range has given it a feed since it came, and it is eating yet!”
“Where is the tenderfoot, as you call him, now?”
“Oh, asleep in his little bed. Maybe he won’t have a headache in the
morning! Oh, no; I guess not! And it was his first drink, too. Will you
have one, sir, on me?”
“No, thank you. I never drink, but I’ll take a box of Henry Clays, if
you have them.”
“I just have! You see, I keep them for the fellows from the mines. When
they come down flush, nothing else is good enough for them. Then, by
the time they have been here an hour they couldn’t tell what they’re
smoking, so I have to give them cheaper ones. But this box has never
been opened.”
“I am glad to get it. I expect we’ll go up in the mountains as soon as
I can locate a place and get a shack. Then I’ll send to Cheyenne for
our traps and settle down for a while. Any doctors about here?”
“No, not within thirty miles. But there is a woman here--no, an
angel--and it’s Angel we call her, and when there is sickness or
trouble she is right there. If you like, I’ll interjuce her to your
ladies the next time she comes in. She was here to-day to dinner. She
is as fine a woman as ever walked the earth, the Angel is.”
“Thank you, but just at present I want my daughter to be kept strictly
secluded. The sight of strangers always makes her worse. I am sure that
we shall be glad to know this lady--the Angel, as you call her--later.
My wife will, I know.”
Then Pierson took out a handful of cigars, paid for the box, and asked
Snakes to keep the box handy, as he was going to have supper and a
smoke. He signaled to Dopey and they went to the dining-room, where
Dopey astonished himself, as well as the waiters, by the quantity of
food he consumed. He could not have eaten as much in the city in a week.
“Say, boss,” said he, in a raucous whisper, “dey’s no limit to de feed
here, is dere? An’ see what a pile I’m layin’ away. I t’ink de air
agrees wid me here.”
“It is not the air so much as the absence from the dope-chair, so try
to get that through your head, and never touch it again.”
“I don’t care, now, if I never do, but if I gits back on de Bowery--I
couldn’t say. Say, is de ladies eatin’?”
“They are, I expect. Mum’s the word. Eat your supper and never talk
when there is anyone about.”
This last was said in a tone so low that none could hear it.
There was some speculation among the men who were regular boarders and
the miners and cowboys who generally rode in in the evening whenever
they were at liberty, and the peremptory order from Snakes to refrain
from shooting, on account of the young lady upstairs, had the effect
of a damper upon their noisy gaiety. They were filled with sympathetic
pity for the poor young girl who was so beautiful.
In the meantime Pierson, followed by Dopey, went on up the run to smoke
and be able to concoct their plans for getting rid of Muriel and Dora.
They passed not ten feet from the tiny tent where the bereaved father
was lying unconscious from the fumes of the abominable stuff he had
been forced to drink to amuse the men. The poor shoemaker and the
little boy lay there together, safe in the hands of the men about and
sheltered by the great mountains beyond, but they would never have
awakened to the glory of the morning had Pierson known who slept under
the tent.