Stella Donovan never forgot the miseries of her first night in Haskell.
When old man Timmons finally left her, after placing the flaring lamp
on a chair, and went pattering back down the bare hall, she glanced
shudderingly about at her unpleasant surroundings, none too pleased
with the turn of events.
The room was scarcely large enough to contain the few articles of
furniture absolutely required. Its walls were of unplaned plank
occasionally failing to meet, and the only covering to the floor was a
dingy strip of rag-carpet. The bed was a cot, shapeless, and propped
up on one side by the iron leg of some veranda bench, while the open
window looked out into the street. There was a bolt, not appearing
particularly secure, with which Miss Donovan immediately locked the
door before venturing across to take a glance without.
The view was hardly reassuring, as the single street was still the
scene of pandemonium, the saloon and dance-hall almost directly
opposite, operating in full blast. Oaths and ribald laughter assailed
her ears, while directly beneath, although out of her view, a quarrel
threatened to lead to serious consequences. She pulled down the window
to shut out these sounds, but the room became so stuffy and hot without
even this slight ventilation, as to oblige her opening it again. As a
compromise she hauled down the curtain, a green paper affair, torn
badly, and which occasionally flapped in the wind with a startling
noise.
The bed-clothing, once turned back and inspected, was of a nature to
prevent the girl from disrobing; but finally she lay down, seeking such
rest as was possible, after turning the flickering flames of the lamp
as low as she dared, and then finally blowing it out altogether. The
glare from the street crept in through the cracks in the curtain,
playing in fantastic light and shadow across ceiling and wall, while
the infernal din never ceased.
Sleep was not to be attained, although she closed her eyes and muffled
her ears. The misshapen bed brought no comfort to her tired body, for
no matter how she adjusted herself, the result was practically the
same. Not even her mind rested.
Miss Donovan was not naturally of a nervous disposition. She had been
brought up very largely to rely upon herself, and life had never been
sufficiently easy for her to find time in which to cultivate nerves.
Her newspaper training had been somewhat strenuous, and had won her a
reputation in New York for unusual fearlessness and devotion to duty.
Yet this situation was so utterly different, and so entirely
unexpected, that she confessed to herself she would be very glad to be
safely out of it.
A revolver shot rang out sharply from one of the rooms below, followed
by the sound of loud voices, and a noise of struggle. The startled
girl sat upright on the cot, listening, but the disturbance ceased
almost immediately, and she finally lay down again, her heart still
beating wildly. Her thoughts, never still, wandered over the events of
the evening--the arrival at Haskell station, the strange meeting with
Westcott, and the sudden revelation that he was the partner of
Frederick Cavendish.
The big, good-natured miner had interested her from the first as
representing a perfect type of her preconceived ideal of the real
Westerner. She had liked the firm character of his face, the quiet,
thoughtful way in which he acted, the whole unobtrusive bearing of the
man. Then, as they had walked that long mile together in the darkness,
she had learned things about him--little glimpses of his past, and of
dawning hopes--which only served to increase her confidence. Already
he had awakened her trust; she felt convinced that if she needed
friendship, advice, even actual assistance, here was one whom she could
implicitly trust.
The racket outside died away slowly. She heard various guests return
to their rooms, staggering along the hall and fumbling at their doors;
voices echoed here and there, and one fellow, mistaking his domicile
entirely, struggled with her latch in a vain endeavour to gain
entrance. She was upon her feet, when companions arrived and led the
invader elsewhere, their loud laughter dying away in the distance. It
was long after this before nature finally conquered and the girl slept
outstretched on the hard cot, the first faint grey of dawn already
visible in the eastern sky.
She was young, though, and she awoke rested and refreshed, in spite of
the fact that her body ached at first from the discomfort of the cot.
The sunlight rested in a sheet of gold on her drawn curtain, and the
silence of the morning, following so unexpectedly the dismal racket of
the night, seemed to fairly shock her into consciousness. Could this
be Haskell? Could this indeed be the inferno into which she had been
precipitated from the train in the darkness of the evening before? She
stared about at the bare, board walls, the bullet-scarred mirror, the
cracked pitcher, before she could fully reassure herself; then stepped
upon the disreputable rug, and crossed to the open window.
Haskell at nine in the morning bore but slight resemblance to that same
environment during the hours of darkness--especially on a night
immediately following pay-day at the mines. As Miss Donovan, now
thoroughly awake, and obsessed by the memory of those past hours of
horror, cautiously drew aside the corner of torn curtain, and gazed
down upon the deserted street below, she could scarcely accept the
evidence of her own eyes.
True, there were many proofs visible of the wild riot of the evening
before--torn papers, emptied bottles, a shattered sign or two, an
oil-lamp blown into bits by some well-directed shot, a bat lying in the
middle of the road, and a dejected pony or two, still at the
hitching-rack, waiting a delayed rider. But, except for these mute
reminiscences of past frolic, the long street seemed utterly dead, the
doors of saloons and dance-halls closed, the dust swirling back and
forth to puffs of wind, the only moving object visible being a gaunt,
yellow dog trotting soberly past.
However, it was not upon this view of desolation that Miss Donovan's
eyes clung. They had taken all this in at a glance, startled, scarcely
comprehending, but the next instant wandered to the marvellous scene
revealed beyond that squalid street, and those miserable shacks, to the
green beauty of the outspread valley, and the wondrous vista of
mountain peaks beyond.
She straightened up, emitting a swift breath of delight, as her
wide-open eyes surveyed the marvellous scene of mingled loveliness and
grandeur. The stream, curving like a great snake, gleamed amid the
acres of green grass, its swift waters sparkling in the sun. Here and
there it would dip down between high banks, or disappear for a moment
behind a clump of willows, only to reappear in broader volume. Beyond,
seemingly at no distance at all, yet bordered by miles of turf and
desert, the patches of vivid green interspersed with the darker
colouring of spruce, and the outcropping of brown rocks, the towering
peaks of a great mountain-chain swept up into the clear blue of the
sky, black almost to their summits, which were dazzling with the white
of unmelted snow. Marvellous, awe-inspiring as the picture was in
itself alone, it was rendered even more wonderful when contrasted with
the ugly squalidness of the town below, its tents and shacks sprawling
across the flat, the sunlight revealing its dust and desolation.
The girl's first exclamation of delight died away as she observed these
works of man projected against this screen of nature's building; yet
her eyes dwelt lovingly for some time on the far-flung line of
mountains, before she finally released the green shade, and shut out
the scene. Her toilet was a matter of but a few minutes, although she
took occasion to slip on a fresh waist, and to brighten up the shoes,
somewhat soiled by the tramp through the thick dust the evening before.
Indeed, it was a very charming young woman, her dress and appearance
quite sufficiently Eastern, who finally ventured out into the rough
hall, and down the single flight of stairs. The hotel was silent,
except for the heavy breathing of a sleeper in one of the rooms she
passed, and a melancholy-looking Chinaman, apparently engaged in
chamber work at the further end of the hall. Timmons was alone in the
office, playing with a shaggy dog, and the floor remained unswept,
while a broken chair still bore evidence of the debauch of the previous
night. The landlord greeted her rather sullenly, his eyes heavy and
red from lack of sleep.
"Morning," he said, without attempting to rise. "Lie down thar,
Towser; the lady don't likely want yer nosin' around. Yer a bit late
fer breakfast; it's ginerally over with by eight o'clock."
"I am not at all hungry," she answered. "Is it far to the post-office?"
"'Bout two blocks, ter yer right. If yer intendin' ter stay yere, ye
better have yer mail sent ter the hotel."
"Thank you; I'll see. I do not know yet the length of my stay."
"Are ye yere on business?"
"Partly; but it may require only a few days."
"Waal, if yer do stay over, maybe I kin fix yer up a bit more
comfortable-like. Thar'll be some drummers a goin' out to-day, I
reckon."
"Thank you very much; I'll let you know what I decide the moment I know
myself. Is that a hunting-dog?"
"Bones mostly," he responded gloomily, but stroking the animal's head.
"Leastwise, he ain't been trained none. I just naturally like a darg
round fer company--they sorter seem homelike."
She passed out into the bright sunshine, and clear mountain air. The
board-walk ended at the corner of the hotel, but a narrow cinder-patch
continued down that side of the street for some distance. The houses
were scattered, the vacant spaces between grown up to weeds, and more
or less ornamented by tin cans, and as she advanced she encountered
only two pedestrians--a cowboy, so drunk that he hung desperately to
the upper board of a fence in order to let her pass, staring at her as
if she was some vision, and a burly fellow in a checked suit, with some
mail in his hand, who stopped after they had passed each other, and
gazed back at her as though more than ordinarily interested. From the
hotel stoop he watched until she vanished within the general store,
which contained the post-office.
Through the rude window the clerk pushed a plain manila envelope into
her outstretched hand. Evidently from the thinness of the letter,
Farriss had but few instructions to give and, thrusting the unopened
missive into her hand-bag, she retraced her steps to her room.
There she vented a startled gasp. The suitcase which she had left
closed upon the floor was open--wide open--its contents disarranged.
Some one had rummaged it thoroughly. And Miss Donovan knew that she
was under suspicion.