OUT OF THE STORM
The challenge had gone forth. In those two vivid shafts of light,
in the deafening peals of thunder the war of elements had been
proclaimed, and these men of the wilderness understood something of
their danger.
Thereafter, for some moments, a threatening silence reigned
everywhere. The birds, the insects even, all life seemed to crouch,
hushed and expectant. The valley might have been the valley of death,
so still, so dark, so threatening was the superheated atmosphere that
hung over it.
The men within the shelter of the hut waited, and only Buck and Blue
Grass Pete stood near the blanket-covered doorway. There was little
enough confidence in the inefficient shelter of the hut, but it was
their natural retreat and so they accepted it. Then the moment of
tension passed, and Buck, glancing swiftly round the hut, seized a
hammer and hastily secured the covering of the doorway.
"She'll be on us right smart," he observed to Pete, who assisted him
while the others looked on.
"Yes," replied Pete resignedly. "Guess we're goin' to git it good."
There was not only resignation, but indifference in his tone.
Buck glanced up at the roof, and the rest followed his gaze curiously.
He shook his head.
"It's worse than----"
But he did not finish what he had to say. A strange hissing broke from
the distance, like the sound of rushing water, and, with each passing
moment, it grew in volume until, out of the heart of it, a
deep-throated roar boomed over the hilltops.
It was a great wind-storm leaping down from the everlasting snows of
the mountains, tearing its way through the lean branches of the
forest-tops, the wide-gaping valleys, and rushing up the hillsides
with a violence that tore limbs from the parent trunks and rooted out
trees that had withstood a thousand storms. It was the deep breath of
the storm fiend launched upon a defenseless earth, carrying wreck and
destruction whithersoever its blast was turned.
"By Jing'!"
It was Montana Ike who voiced the awe crowding every heart.
But his exclamation brought the practical mind of Buck to
consideration of their needs. His eyes turned again to the roof, and
Pete voiced his thoughts.
"She'll carry away like--like a kite when it hits us," he declared.
Several more pairs of eyes were turned helplessly upward. Suddenly
Buck swung round upon the doorway.
"Here she comes," he cried. "Holy----!"
With a rush and a deafening roar the wind hit the building and set it
rocking. Buck and Pete flung themselves with arms outspread against
the ballooning blanket, and it held. Again the wind crashed against
the sides of the hut. Some one flung himself to the two men's
assistance. Then came a ripping and tearing, and the thatch hissed
away on the breath of the storm like straw caught in a whirlwind. The
men gazed stupidly up at the blackened heavens, which were now like
night. There was nothing to be done. What could they do? They were
helpless. And not even a voice could make itself heard in the howling
of the wind as it shrieked about the angles of the building.
Then came the rain. It fell in great drops whose sheer weight and size
carried them, at the moment of impact, through the ragged shirts to
the warm flesh beneath. In a second, it seemed, a waterspout was upon
them and was pouring its tide into the roofless hut.
With the deluge, the elemental battle began in desperate earnest. Peal
after peal of thunder crashed directly overhead, and with it came such
a display of heavenly pyrotechnics that in their wildest moments these
men had never dreamed of. Their eyes were blinded, and their ear-drums
were bursting with the incessant hammering of the thunder.
But the wind had passed on, shrieking and tearing its way into the dim
distance until its voice was utterly drowned in the sterner
detonations of the battle.
Drenched to the skin, knee-deep in water, the men stood herded
together like sheep in a pen. Their blankets were awash and floated
about, tangling their legs in the miniature lake that could not find
rapid enough exit through the doorway. They could only stand there
stupidly. To go outside was to find no other shelter, and only the
more openly to expose themselves to the savage forks of lightning
playing across the heavens in such blinding streaks. Nor could they
help the women even if they needed help in the other huts. The roofs
and doors would or would not hold, and, in the latter case, until the
force of the storm abated no help could serve them.
The storm showed no signs of abatement. The black sky was the sky of
an unlit night. There was no lightening in any direction, and the
blinding flashes amidst the din of thunder only helped to further
intensify the pitchy vault. The splitting of trees amidst the chaos
reached the straining ears, and it was plain that every flash of light
was finding a billet for its forked tongue in the adjacent forests.
The time dragged on. How long or how short was the period of the storm
none of the men wondered or cared. The rapidity of the thunder
crashes, the swift successions of lightning entirely held them, and,
strong as they were, these things kept their nerves jumping.
Once in the midst of it all a man suddenly cried out. His cry came
with a more than usually brilliant flash of purplish, steel-blue fire.
The intensity of it carried pain to the now supersensitive nerves of
his vision, and he turned and flung himself with his face buried upon
his arm against the dripping wall. It was Beasley Melford. He stood
there cowering, a dreadful terror shaking his every nerve.
The others turned stupidly in his direction, but none had thought for
his suffering. Each was hard pressed to face the terror of it all
himself; each was wondering at what moment his own limits would be
reached. Buck alone showed no sign of the nervous tension. His deep
brown eyes watched the group about him, automatically blinking with
every flash of light, and with only the slightest possible start as
the thunder crashed into his ears.
He was thinking, too--thinking hard of many things. The Padre was out
in the hills with gun and traps. Would he have anticipated the swift
rising storm and regained the shelter of the stout old fort? With the
boom of falling trees going on about them, with the fiery crackle of
the blazing light as it hit the topmost branches of the adjacent
forest, he wondered and hoped, and feared for the old man in the same
thought.
Then there were those others. The women and children in the other
huts. How were they faring? But he remembered that the married
quarters were better built than this hut had been, and he drew comfort
from the thought. And what of the Kid, and of Caesar?
More than two hours passed before any change came. The deafening peals
of thunder seemed as though they would never lessen in tone. The
night-like heavens seemed as though no sun could ever hope to
penetrate them again. And the streaming rain--was there ever such a
deluge since the old Biblical days!
Buck understood now the nature of the storm. Probably twenty years
would elapse before another cloudburst would occur again, and the
thought set him speculating upon the effect this might have upon the
lake on Devil's Hill. What might not happen? And then the creek below!
He remembered that these huts of the gold-seekers were on the
low-lying banks of the creek. What if it flooded? He stirred uneasily,
and, turning to the doorway, opened a loose fold in the blanket and
peered out.
He saw the creek in a sudden blaze of light, and in that momentary
brilliance he saw that the rushing water was rising rapidly. A grave
feeling of uneasiness stirred him and he turned back to his
companions. For once in his life he felt utterly helpless.
Another hour passed. The atmospheric heat had passed, and the men
stood shivering in the water. The chill was biting into their very
bones, but still there was no respite. Twice more Buck turned anxious
eyes upon the creek. And each time his alarm increased as the blinding
light revealed the rapid rise of the water. He dared not voice his
fears yet. He understood the condition of mind prevailing. To warn his
companions would be to set them rushing to get their womenfolk out of
their shelters, and this must not be thought of--yet.
He had just arrived at the conclusion that he would abide by his next
observation when the long-looked-for change began. It came as suddenly
as the rising of the storm itself. It came in a rapid lightening of
the sky overhead. From black to gray it turned almost in a second. A
dull, ominous, rolling world of gray rain-clouds. The thunder died
away and the blinding flashes came no more. It was as though the storm
had been governed by one all-powerful will and the word to "cease
fire" had been hurled across the heavens as the last discharge of
monstrous artillery had been fired. Then, with the lifting of the
darkness, the rain slackened too, and the deluge eased.
Buck sighed his relief, and Curly Saunders, from near by, audibly
expressed his.
"She's lettin' up," he growled.
Pete caught at his words.
"It sure is."
Buck was about to speak, but his lips remained open and he stood
listening.
What was that?
Something was moving beyond the doorway. Something touched the
blanket as though seeking support. Then it slid down, its movement
visible in the bulging of the drenched cloth. This was followed by a
heavy, squelching flop. The body, whatever it was, had fallen into the
streaming water pouring from within the hut. Then came a long-drawn,
piteous moan that held the men gazing silently and stupidly at the
sagging blanket.
It was while they stood thus that the rain ceased altogether, and the
great storm-clouds broke and began to disperse, and a watery sunbeam
lit the wreck of the passing storm. As its light poured in upon the
wretched interior a second moan, short and weak but distinctly
audible, reached the astounded ears of the men. There was a moment's
pause as it died out, then Buck's arm shot out, and, seizing the edge
of the blanket, he ripped it from its fastenings and let it fall to
the ground. Instantly every neck was set craning, and every eye was
alight with wonder, for there, half-resting upon the sill of the
doorway, and half-lying upon the ground with the water streaming
everywhere about her, lay the huddled, half-drowned figure of a young
woman.
"It's--it's a--woman," cried Pete stupidly, unable to contain his
astonishment longer.
"It sure is," murmured Curly, with equal brightness.
But while they gave the company the benefit of their keenness of
perception Buck had dropped upon his knees and was bending over the
wretched victim of the storm. He raised her, and drew her tenderly
into his arms.
"'Tain't one of ours," announced Ike over his shoulder.
"No." Buck's monosyllable displayed no great interest in his remark.
Amidst a dead silence Buck suddenly straightened up, with the
dripping figure clasped tightly in his strong arms. A great pity shone
in his eyes as he gazed down into the fair young face. It was the
first time in all his life he had held a woman in his arms, and the
sensation of it made him forget those others about him.
Suddenly Ike's voice aroused him.
"By Gar!" he cried. "Jest look at that red ha'r. Say, easy, boys,
we're treadin' it around in the mud."
It was true. The great masses of the girl's red-gold hair had fallen
loose and were trailing in the water as Buck held her. It reached from
the man's shoulder, where her head was pillowed, and the heavy-footed
men were trampling the ends of it into the mud. Ike stooped and
rescued the sodden mass, and laid it gently across Buck's shoulders.
For a moment the sun shone down upon the wondering group. The clouds
had broken completely, and were scattering in every direction as
though eager to escape observation after their recent shameful
display. No one seemed to think of moving out into the rapidly warming
open. They were content to gather about Buck's tall figure and gape
down at the beautiful face of the girl lying in his arms.
It was Beasley Melford who first became practical.
"She's alive, anyway," he said. "Sort o' stunned. Mebbe it's the
lightnin'."
Pete turned, a withering glance upon his foxy face.
"Lightnin' nuthin'," he cried scornfully. "If she'd bin hit she'd ha'
bin black an' dead. Why, she--she ain't even brown. She's white as
white." His voice became softer, and he was no longer addressing the
ex-Churchman. "Did y' ever see sech skin--so soft an' white? An' that
ha'r, my word! I'd gamble a dollar her eyes is blue--ef she'd jest
open 'em."
He reached out a great dirty hand to touch the beautiful whiteness of
the girl's throat with a caressing movement, but instantly Buck's
voice, sharp and commanding, stayed his action.
"Quit that!" he cried. "Ke'p your durned hands to yourself," he added,
with a strange hoarseness.
Pete's eyes lit angrily.
"Eh? What's amiss?" he demanded. "Guess I ain't no disease."
Beasley chuckled across at him, and the sound of his mirth infuriated
Buck. He understood the laugh and the meaning underlying it.
"Buck turned wet nurse," cried the ex-Churchman, as he beheld the
sudden flush on the youngster's face.
"You can ke'p your durned talk," Buck cried. "You Beasley--and the lot
of you," he went on recklessly. "She's no ord'nary gal; she's--she's a
lady."
Curly and Ike nodded agreement.
But Beasley, whatever his fears of the storm, understood the men of
his world. Nor had he any fear of them, and Buck's threat only had the
effect of rousing the worst side of his nature, at all times very near
the surface.
"Lady? Psha'! Write her down a woman, they're all the same, only
dressed different. Seems to me it's better they're all just women. An'
Pete's good enough for any woman, eh, Pete? She's just a nice, dandy
bit o' soft flesh an' blood, eh, Pete? Guess you like them sort, eh,
Pete?"
The man's laugh was a hideous thing to listen to, but Pete was not
listening. Buck heard, and his dark face went ghastly pale, even
though his eyes were fixed on the beautiful face with its closed,
heavily-lashed eyes. Pete's attention was held by the delicate
contours of her perfect figure and the gaping, bedraggled white
shirt-waist, where the soft flesh of her fair bosom showed through,
and the delicate lace and ribbons of her undergarments were left in
full view.
No one offered Beasley encouragement and his laugh fell flat. And when
Curly spoke it was to express something of the general thought.
"Wonder how she came here?" he said thoughtfully.
"Seems as though the storm had kind o' dumped her down," Abe Allinson
admitted.
Again Beasley chuckled.
"Say, was ther' ever such a miracle o' foolishness as you fellers? You
make me laff--or tired, or something. Wher'd she come from? Ain't the
Padre sold his farm?" he demanded, turning on Buck. "Ain't he sold it
to a woman? An' ain't he expectin' her along?"
Buck withdrew his eyes from the beautiful face, and looked up in
answer to the challenge.
"Why, yes," he said, his look suddenly hardening as he confronted
Beasley's face. "I had forgotten. This must surely be Miss--Miss Rest.
That's the name Mrs. Ransford, the old woman at the farm, said. Rest."
He repeated the name as though it were pleasant to his ears.
"Course," cried Curly cheerfully. "That's who it is--sure."
"Rest, eh? Miss--Rest," murmured the preoccupied Pete. Then he added,
half to himself, "My, but she's a dandy! Ain't--ain't she a pictur',
ain't she----?"
Buck suddenly pushed him aside, and his action was probably rougher
than he knew. But for some reason he did not care. For some reason he
had no thought for any one but the fair creature lying in his arms.
His head was throbbing with a strange excitement, and he moved swiftly
toward the door, anxious to leave the inquisitive eyes of his
companions behind him.
As he reached the door Beasley's hateful tones arrested him.
"Say, you ain't takin' that pore thing up to the fort, are you?" he
jeered.
Buck swung about with the swiftness of a panther. His eyes were ablaze
with a cold fire.
"You rotten outlaw parson!" he cried.
He waited for the insult to drive home. Then when he saw the fury in
the other's face, a fury he intended to stir, he went on--
"Another insinuation like that an' I'll shoot you like the dog you
are," he cried, and without waiting for an answer he turned to the
others. "Say, fellers," he went on, "I'm takin' this gal wher' she
belongs--down to the farm. I'm goin' to hand her over to the old woman
there. An' if I hear another filthy suggestion from this durned skunk
Beasley, what I said goes. It's not a threat. It's a promise, sure,
an' I don't ever forgit my promises."
Beasley's face was livid, and he drew a sharp breath.
"I don't know 'bout promises," he said fiercely. "But you won't find
me fergittin' much either."
Buck turned to the door again and threw his retort over his shoulder.
"Then you sure won't forgit I've told you what you are."
"I sure won't."
Nor did Buck fail to appreciate the venom the other flung into his
words. But he was reckless--always reckless. And he hurried through
the doorway and strode off with his still unconscious burden.