Bud had never heard a woman cry as Roxie cried. He had heard them whine
and heard them lament and seen their faces grow stolid with grief,
but that was all in the day’s work. He was always able to pass on and
forget. It was no affair of his, and women were doomed to a certain
amount of that sort of thing.
But this time the sobs got under his thick, leathery skin. They pierced
still deeper--into the core of him, into the heart of him. His eyes
upon her sagging form; upon the hair which so lately had been blown
across his cheek as he bore her away, insensible, over his shoulder;
upon the small hands crowded against her face; he felt an ache that was
like the ague. And yet there was a significant difference. The pains
of the fever were personal. They concerned him and his own body. But
now he was hurt not because of himself, but because she was hurt--this
other.
That was difficult to understand. The more so because, in reality, he
had his own grievous wound. She was crying because he had killed that
pink-cheeked furriner--crying because she had cared for the man. For a
moment that memory did serve to harden him, but--she kept on crying.
She was hurt. There was no pretense about it. She was suffering like a
wounded pet. The cause of her grief did not matter.
Bud’s heart went out to her as it never had to any other living thing.
Dropping his rifle to the ground he rose.
“Roxie,” he faltered, “don’ take on like thet.”
She did not move. She gave no indication that she heard. He took a step
nearer, his long arms hanging loosely by his side; his face troubled.
“I’m a-talkin’ to yuh, Roxie,” he said.
There was, in his voice, the deep tenderness of a lover and of a
father, too. Huddled in a heap as she was, she looked such a tiny
body. He could have picked her up without effort. And he ached to do
just that--to pick her up and hold her close. He felt that so he could
shield her from harm.
Because she did not protest, he ventured still nearer. He was at her
side now, still standing erect.
“Gawd!” he said, “Gawd, how I love yuh!”
At that Roxie sprang--upright and sideways towards Bud’s rifle. But Bud
was there before her. He moved instinctively. That gun was as much a
part of him as his right hand. He snatched it from the ground, and as
he did so the girl recoiled.
The two faced each other again; Roxie shrinking away in fear at the
revenge he might take for this attempt, Bud feeling more helpless with
the rifle in his hands than without it.
She had tried to get the gun. If she had succeeded, she would have
killed him. She hated him as fiercely as that. A woman is not often
tempted to kill, but when she is so tempted she is dangerous. And yet
the realization of this hatred, instead of rousing him to aggressive
action, instead of urging him to retaliation as ordinarily it would,
had quite the opposite effect. It took all the spirit out of him--all
his courage and high hopes. His arms grew limp. The hills about him,
instead of offering protection, hemmed him in like prison walls. No use
now in climbing them or crossing with her to the valleys beyond. With
her ready to spring upon him, whether he was there or here made little
difference. Whether he was here or anywhere made no difference now.
An overpowering sense of helplessness pressed down upon him. Never
before had he faced a situation, however desperate, where he could
not find relief in physical action. Always there was something to
break through or down; always there was a shooting chance. But here
there was nothing to strike; nothing over which a rifle bullet had any
control. He could still carry her off, to be sure, but what would he
be carrying? Just the shell of her, and this love of his was genuine
enough to turn away from that. He wanted more, but the more that he
wanted could not be taken. He could have it only as it was given. And
no man can force a gift.
Here was an idea new to Bud Childers; all that a woman has of love
worth while must come to a man as a gift. Love is not anything to be
seized with the hands. It is not the flower; it is the perfume of the
flower. It is not the hair, the lips, the hands, but the soul. Else one
woman would be like another woman and not worth the struggle.
It was quite useless for Bud to carry the girl any farther back into
the hills. He must allow her to return to her own. But after that--what
of himself?
Bud’s eyes wandered a moment--from the frightened girl to the heavy
forest growth surrounding her. The trees had always been his friends.
He had played among them as a child, hunted among them as a boy,
and lived among them as a man. They had furnished him a home, food,
protection, and companionship. But they failed him now. They offered
no encouragement. They remained as blank and as dumb as so many trees.
They turned to Roxie rather than to him. Perhaps this was in revenge
for the axe he had driven deep into the heart of so many of their
fellows.
He raised his eyes to a squirrel frolicking among the branches--a red
boomer who chattered saucily in his face. He raised his eyes to the sky
and the sky gave him no answer.
He was conscious of a deep and awful sense of desolation--as though
he had suddenly been abandoned by all creation. He wasn’t much on
religion, but there was something of religion in his feeling. Gawd
A’mighty was getting his revenge. He was alone as he had never been
alone--alone even here in his own mountain country. And his long face
grew haggard at the thought.
Bud Childers brought his eyes back to Roxie. He found her still
watching him--suspiciously, alertly. Her eyes stabbed like knives. He
could bear it no longer. With a suppressed cry, he tossed the gun to
her feet.
“Shoot ef yuh want!” he cried. “Shoot an’ hev done with hit.”
The girl picked up the rifle. She held the butt firmly against her
shoulder and covered him. And, instead of quailing, she saw him stand
a little more erect, his eyes full upon her. With her finger upon the
trigger she sighted along the barrel to the left of his broad, exposed
chest. She had only to bend that finger ever so little and Allston
stood revenged. This was no more than simple justice. She repeated that
word to herself--justice--as she raised her eyes to the gray of Bud’s
eyes. The man did not flinch. He was holding himself taut, ready to
receive the blow, but he did not flinch.
His eyes were gray, but there was blue in them. They were gray, but
there was light in them. They were gray, but back of them there was
the magic of the dawn. It was as though something was a-borning there.
Something a-borning to which her mother heart, willy-nilly, responded.
She tried to fight off the emotion, but her trigger finger weakened.
She tried still to fight it off, but her extended arms began to wobble.
She lowered the rifle.
“Bud Childers,” she said, “you knowed I couldn’ do thet. You knowed I
couldn’ kill.”
“I reckoned you’d kill me ef yuh hed the chanst,” he replied seriously.
“You’re speakin’ honest?”
“I reckoned yuh would.”
Her mind was working quickly. She did not fully believe yet that any
such change of heart had come over him. She was half ashamed to believe
it. It was not like Bud to give up in this wise. He was depending upon
her weakness. But there was one way to test him--one way that would
prove conclusively if the man meant what he said or not.
“Bud Childers,” she called, “hit ain’t fer me to hand out justice,
but thar’s them thet will. An’ ef yo’re hones’ ye’ll walk back to th’
valley an’ pay like a man fer what yuh done.”
A rifle bullet would have been merciful in comparison with those
words. Bud staggered back a little--just a very little. He recovered
quickly. Everything in his nature--everything there up to a few minutes
ago--rebelled at the suggestion. The world swam about him. And yet here
was a direct challenge--a challenge flung in his face. The eyes before
him were even now, at this hesitancy, filling with mocking laughter.
The lips were curling in scorn.
“You--you ax me to do thet?” he faltered.
“I _dare_ yuh to do thet,” she answered.
He turned on his heels and led the way back to the mountain road.
Roxie followed the tall, stooping figure as though in a dream. She was
not convinced even now that he intended to fulfill any such purpose.
Yet without faltering he led the way through the bushes and out into
the road, pausing to wait for her when his long stride took him too
far ahead. And more than once she found her own steps lagging. She was
urging this man to his death and he was going willingly. Never once did
he give any sign of weakening. She watched his big muscular body as it
swung along the road in front of her--watched it with a feeling of
awe. It was so expressive of life--so vibrant with energy. It did not
seem right to kill anything like that--even in the name of justice. Yet
Allston, too, had been vibrant with life, and then--
The memory hardened her young face. She grasped the rifle firmly and
followed more rapidly.
They were nearing the shack. It was a question of only a few more
minutes and this issue would be taken out of her hands forever. How
long it was she had been gone she did not know, but it seemed like
hours. The chances were that by now the searchers were up here. At
every turn of the winding road she half expected to see a challenging
figure. She peered ahead shrinkingly. But Bud never even glanced up. He
plodded on like one in a dream.
She paused once--deliberately. Perhaps, if he found himself out of
sight of her, he might make a dash for liberty. But his ears apparently
were alert, because within three steps he stopped in his turn and swung
to see what had become of her. So once again their eyes met.
The fool! Why didn’t he take his chance? Once around that little
bend he could have swerved into the undergrowth and disappeared.
Instead of that he just stood there waiting. His eyes asked nothing of
her--nothing of any one.
Resting the butt of the rifle on the ground, she leaned upon the barrel
as upon a staff.
“’Tain’t fer now,” he said encouragingly.
It was not far for her, but for him--it might be a journey without
end. That thing called law was helpless as long as a man kept in the
hills, but once he came down into the valley it had the strength of a
giant. She remembered stories--stories told to illustrate the might
and majesty of the law; of how certain men had struggled and run and
twisted and turned in vain in their attempt to escape the sheriff. And
her sympathies always had been with the man--as they were with the fox
against the hounds. The law was necessary and should be respected. She
had learned that at the Mission school. But the law, too, was a vague
outside force--a foreign force. More often than not it was associated
with men from the county seat or from that far-off place called
Washington.
Bud waited patiently while she stood there in a tremble. She did not
want this Thing to catch him. She did not want him dragged off and
put in prison or possibly killed. She was a valley girl, but these
mountains were part of her. It was as though she were surrendering
Caterpillar Ridge. As long as she could remember she had associated
these woods with Bud Childers. The fool! Why didn’t he run instead of
waiting for her?
“Reckon we’d better be rackin’ erlong,” he said.
So she started once more, and then, unexpectedly, they were around a
turn and in full view of the clearing before the shack. Her eyes were
drawn as by a magnet to the spot where she had last seen the crumpled
form of Allston. It was not there. Moreover, smoke was coming from the
cabin chimney. Some one was here--but not the crowd she had expected.
Not a soul was in sight.
“Wanter turn in thar?” asked Bud.
Roxie caught her breath.
“Whar _is_ he?” she trembled.
“They mought ha’ kerried him inside,” he said in a voice grown dead.
With that he went on again, across the log towards the shack. She
followed close at his heels, afraid of what she might see. Twice her
hand was almost upon Bud’s arm, but she was not sure, even at this
moment, of what she ought to do.