APPROACHING THE TRIBUNAL
The sun was mounting royally in the eastern sky. There was not a
breath of air to temper the rapidly heating atmosphere. The green
grassland rolled away on every hand, a fascinating, limitless plain
whose monotony drives men to deep-throated curses, and yet holds them
to its bosom as surely as might a well-loved mistress. It was a
morning when the heart of man should be stirred with the joy of life,
when lungs expand with deep draughts of the earth's purest air, when
the full, rich blood circulates with strong, virile pulsations, and
the power to do tingles in every nerve.
It was no day on which a man, branded with the worst crime known to a
cattle country, should set out to face his fellow men. There should
have been darkening clouds on every horizon. There should have been
distant growlings of thunder, and every now and then the heavens
should have been "rent in twain with appalling floods of cruel light,"
to match the hopeless gloom of outraged innocence.
But the glorious summer day was there to mock, as is the way of things
in a world where the struggles and disasters of humanity must be
counted so infinitesimal.
This was the morning when Jim Thorpe turned his stiffly squared back
upon the "AZ" ranch. He wanted no melodramatic accompaniment. He
wanted the light, he wanted the cheering sun, he wanted that wealth
of natural splendor, which the Western prairie can so amply afford,
to lighten the burden which had so suddenly fallen upon him.
It was another of Fate's little tricks that had been aimed at him,
another side of that unfortunate destiny which seemed to be ever
dogging him. Well might he have cried out, "How long? How long?"
Whatever the fates had done for him in the past, whatever his
disappointments, whatever his disasters, crime had found no place in
the accusations against him. It almost seemed as though his destiny
was working its heartless pranks upon him with ever-growing
devilishness.
With subtle foresight, and knowledge of its victim it timed its
efforts carefully, and directed them on a course that could hurt his
spirit most. Even when his inclinations, his sensibilities were at
their highest pitch, down came the bolt with unerring aim, and surely
in the very direction which, at the moment, could drive him the
hardest, could bow his head the lowest.
Four years in the cattle world had ingrained in him the instincts of a
traffic which possesses a wholesome appeal to all that is most manly
in men. Four years had taught him to abhor crime against that traffic
in a way that was almost as fanatical as it was in such men as McLagan
and those actually bred to it. He was no exception. He had caught the
fever; and the cattleman's fever is not easily shaken off. As McLagan
would show no mercy to his own brother were he a proven cattle-thief,
so Jim loathed the crime in little less degree. And he was about to
face the world, his world, branded with that crime.
It was a terrible thought, a hideous thought, and, in spite of his
squared shoulders, his stiffened back, his spirit, for the time, was
crushed under the burden so unjustly thrust upon him. He thought of
Peter Blunt, and wondered vaguely what he would say. He wondered what
would be the look in the kindly gray eyes when he spoke the words of
comfort and disbelief which he knew would await him. That was it. The
look. It was the thought behind the words that mattered--and could so
hurt.
As the miles swept away under his horse's raking stride, he tried to
puzzle out the riddle, or the "nut" he had set out to crack, as
McLagan had been pleased to call it. He could see no explanation of
it. Why his brand? He knew well enough that cattle rustlers preferred
to use established brands of distant ranches when it was necessary to
hold stolen cattle in hiding before deporting them from the district.
But _his_ brand. It was absurd from a rustler's point of view.
Everybody knew his small bunch of cattle. Any excessive number with
his brand on would excite suspicion. It was surely, as he had said,
the work of a prentice hand. No experienced thief would have done it.
He thought and thought, but he could see no gleam of light on the
matter.
As the miles were covered he still floundered in a maze of speculation
that seemed to lead him nowhither. But his efforts helped him
unconsciously. It kept his mind from brooding on the disaster to
himself, and, to a man of his sensibilities, this was healthy. He had
all the grit to face his fellow men in self-defense, but, to his proud
nature, it was difficult to stand up under the knowledge of a disgrace
which was not his due.
He was within a few miles of Barnriff when his mind suddenly lurched
into a fresh channel of thought. With that roving, groping after a
clue to the crime of which he was morally accused, Eve suddenly grew
into his focus. He thought with a shudder what it would have meant to
her had she married him instead of Will. He tried to picture her brave
face, while she writhed under the taunts of her sex, and the meaning
glances of the men-folk. It was a terrible picture, and one that
brought beads of perspiration to his brow.
It was a lucky--yes, in spite of Will's defections--thing for her she
had married the man she did. Besides, Will had mended his ways. He had
kept to the judgment that Peter Blunt had passed on him. Well, he
would have the laugh now.
Then there was Will's success. Everything had gone his way. Fortune
had showered her best on him, whether he deserved it or not. She
apparently found no fault in him. And they said he was turning out
thousands of dollars. But there, it was no use thinking and wondering.
The luck had all gone Will's way. It was hard--devilish hard.
Poor Eve! He caught himself pitying her. No, he had no right to pity
her. The pity would have been had she married him. And yet--perhaps
this would never have happened had she married him. No, he told
himself, it would never, could never have happened then. For, in the
fact of having won her, would not his luck have been the reverse of
what it was?
Suddenly he wondered what she would think when he told her--or when
others told her, as, doubtless by this time, they had already done. He
shuddered. She was in a cattle country. She was ingrained with all
its instincts. Would she condemn him without a hearing? When he went
to speak to her, would she turn from him as from something unclean?
Again the sweat broke out at his thought. She might. The facts were
deadly against him. And yet--and yet somehow---- No, he dared not
speculate; he must wait.
There was the humble little village on ahead of him, nestling like
some tiny boat amidst the vast rollers of the prairie ocean. There,
ahead, were his judges, and amongst them the woman who was still more
to him than his very life. He must face them, face them all. And when
their verdict was pronounced, as he knew it would be in no uncertain
manner, then, with girded loins, he must stand out, and, conscious of
his innocence, fight the great battle. It was the world--his
world--against him, he knew. What--what must be the result?