THE GOLDEN WOMAN
Buck wondered as he noted the extraordinary picture of jubilation
which the approaching crowd presented. In all his association with
these people he had never witnessed anything to equal it or even come
near it. He never remembered anything like a real outburst of joy
during the long, dreary months since they had first camped on the
banks of Yellow Creek.
He watched the faces as they drew near. From the shelter of the barn,
whither he had retreated, he had them in full view. He looked for the
old, weary signs of their recent privations and sufferings. There were
none, not one. They had passed as utterly as though they had never
been.
It was a spectacle in which he found the greatest pleasure. The men
were clad in their work-stained clothing, their only clothing. Their
faces remained unwashed, and still bore the accumulations of dusty
sweat from their day's fevered labors. But it was the light in their
eyes, their grinning faces, the buoyancy of their gait that held him.
He heard their voices lifted in such a tone as would have seemed
impossible only a few days ago. The loud, harsh laugh, accompanying
inconsequent jests and jibes, it was good to hear. These men were
tasting the sweets of a moment of perfect happiness. Buck knew well
enough that soon, probably by the morrow, the moment would have
passed, and they would have settled again to the stern calling of
their lives.
All his sympathy was with them, and their joy was reflected in his own
feelings. Their hope was his hope, their buoyancy was his buoyancy.
For his happiness was complete at the moment, and thus he was left
free to feel with those others. Such was his own wonderful exaltation
that the thought of the termination of these people's suffering was
the final note that made his joy complete.
He laid his fork aside and waited till they had passed his retreat.
The object of their journey was obviously the farmhouse, and he felt
that he must learn their further purpose. He remembered Joan's going
from him. He had seen the pain and trouble in her beautiful eyes, and
so he feared that the sudden rush of animal spirits in these people
would drive them to extravagances, well enough meant, but which might
worry and even alarm her.
He moved quickly out of the barn and looked after them. They had
reached the house, and stood like a herd of subdued and silly sheep
waiting for a sign from their leader. It was a quaint sight. The laugh
and jest had died out, and only was the foolish grin left. Yes, they
certainly had a definite purpose in their minds, but they equally
certainly were in doubt as to how it should be carried out.
Buck drew nearer without attracting their attention. The men were so
deeply engaged with the dilemma of the moment that he might almost
have joined the group without observation. But he merely desired to be
on hand to help should the troubled girl need his help. He had no
desire to take active part in the demonstration. As he came near he
heard Beasley's voice, and the very sound of it jarred unpleasantly on
his ears. The man was talking in that half-cynical fashion which was
never without an added venom behind it.
"Well," he heard him exclaim derisively, "wot's doin'? You're all
mighty big talkers back ther' in camp, but I don't seem to hear any
bright suggestions goin' around now. You start this gorl-durned racket
like a pack o' weak-headed fools, yearnin' to pitch away what's been
chucked right into your fool laps jest fer one o' Blue Grass Pete's
fat-head notions. Well, wot's doin'? I ask."
"You ke'p that ugly map o' yours closed," cried Pete hotly. "_You_
ain't bein' robbed any."
"Guess I'll see to that," retorted Beasley, with a grin. "The feller
that robs me'll need to chew razors fer a pastime. If it comes to that
you're yearnin' fer glory at the Padre's expense--as usual."
Buck's ears tingled, and he drew closer. Beasley always had a knack of
so blending truth with his personal venom that it stung far more than
downright insult. He wondered what the Padre's generosity had been,
and wherein lay its connection with their present purpose. The
explanation was not long in coming, for Montana Ike took up the
challenge amidst a storm of ominous murmurs from the gathered men.
"Don't take nuthin' from him," cried the youngster scornfully. Then he
turned on Beasley fiercely. "You need Buck around to set you right,
Mister Lousy Beasley," he cried. "We ain't robbin' anybody, an' sure
not the Padre. He found that nugget, an' it's his to give or do wot he
likes with. The gal brought us the luck, an' the Padre guessed it was
only right she should have the first find. That nugget was the first
find, an' the Padre found it. Wal!" But as no reply was forthcoming he
hurried on, turning his tongue loose in the best abuse he could
command at the moment. "You're a rotten sort o' skunk anyway, an' you
ain't got a decent thought in your diseased head. I'd like to say
right here that you hate seein' a sixty-ounce lump o' gold in any
other hands than your own dirty paws. That's your trouble, so jest
shut right up while better folks handles a matter wot's a sight too
delicate fer a rotten mind like yours."
The smile had returned to every face except the foxy features of the
ex-Churchman, who for once had no adequate retort ready. Curly
Saunders nodded appreciation, and helped to solve the momentary
dilemma prevailing.
"That's sure done it fer you, Montana," he cried gleefully. "You make
the presentation. I'd say I never heard so elegant a flow of argyment
in this yer camp. You'll talk most pretty to the leddy."
"An' it ain't fer me to say I can't do it if need be, neither," said
Montana modestly. "Don't guess it's much of a stunt yappin' pretty to
a sorrel-topped gal."
Abe Allinson laughed.
"It's sure up to you, Ike," he said. "Guess you best git busy right
away."
The rest waited for the youngster's acceptance of the responsibility,
which promptly came with perfect good-will.
"Gee! But you're a gritty outfit," he cried, with a wide grin.
"Say, I guess you'd need a fence around you shootin' jack-rabbits.
Jack-rabbits is ter'ble fierce. Guess you'd most be skeered to death
at a skippin' lamb bleatin' fer its mother. Can't say I ever heerd
tell as a feller need be skeered of a pair o' gal's eyes, nor a sight
o' red ha'r. You said it was red, Pete, didn't you? I'd sure say a
bright feller don't need to worry any over talkin' pretty to a gal
like that. She's up agin a proposition if she thinks she ken skeer me.
Wher' is she? Jest call her out. She's goin' to git her med'cine right
here in the open. I ain't doin' no parlor tricks."
The boy stood out from the crowd with a decided show of mild bravado,
but he glanced about him, seeking the moral support of his fellows.
"You best knock on the door, Ike," said Curly quietly.
Ike hesitated. Then he turned doubtfully to those behind.
"You--you mean that?" he inquired. "You ain't foolin' none?" Then, as
though realizing his own weakness, he began to bluster. "Cos I ain't
takin' no foolin' in a racket o' this sort. An' any feller thinks he
ken fool me'll sure hate hisself when I'm through with him."
A mild snicker greeted his "big talk," and the boy flushed hotly. He
was half-inclined to add further resentment, but, second thoughts
prevailing, he abruptly turned to the door and hammered on it as
though anticipating stern resistance from those within.
* * * * *
Inside the house Mrs. Ransford was debating the situation with her
mistress. She had witnessed the advance of the besieging party, and,
half-frightened and half-resentful, the latter perhaps the more
plainly manifested, she was detailing in unmeasured terms her opinions
and fears to the still harassed girl.
"Jest git a peek at 'em through the window, miss--'ma'm' I should say,
on'y I don't allus remember right, as you might say. Ther's twenty an'
more o' the lowest down bums ever I see outside a State penitentiary.
They're sure the most ter'blest lot ever I did see. An' they got
'emselves fixed up wi' guns an' knives, an' what not an' sech, till
you can't see the color o' their clothes fer the dirt on 'em. I'll
swar' to goodness, as the sayin' is, they ain't never see no water
sence they was christened, if they ever was christened, which I don't
believe no gospel preacher would ever so demean himself. An' as fer
soap, say, they couldn't even spell it if you was to hand 'em the
whole soap fact'ry literature of a fi'-cent daily noos-sheet. They're
jest ter'ble, an' it seems to me we sure need a reg'ment o' United
States Cavalry settin' around on horses an' field guns to pertect us,
ef we're to farm this one-hossed layout. They're 'bad men,' mum,
miss--which I made a mistake ag'in--that's wot they are. I've read
about 'em in the fi'-cent comics, so I sure know 'em when I see 'em.
You can't never make no mistake. They're jest goin' to shoot us all up
to glory, an' they'll dance around on our corpses, same as if they was
nuthin', nor no account anyways."
In spite of her recent shock Joan found herself smiling at the strange
mixture of fear and anger in the old woman's manner. But she felt it
necessary to check her flow of wild accusations. She guessed easily
enough who the men were that were approaching the house, but their
object remained a mystery.
"You're hasty. You mustn't judge these people by their appearance.
They're----"
But the feverish tongue was promptly set clacking again.
"An' wot, I asks, is they to be judged by if not by wot they are? They
jest come along a-yowlin', an' a-shootin' off'n their guns an' things,
same as they allus do when they's on the war-path. Scalps, that's wot
they's after. Scalps, no more an' no less. An' to think o' me at my
time o' life a-fallin' a prey to Injuns, as you might say. Oh, if on'y
my pore George D. Ransford was alive! He'd 'a' give 'em scalps. He was
a man, sure, even though he did set around playin' poker all night
when I was in labor with my twins. He was a great fighter was George
D.--as the marks on my body ken show to this very day."
At that instant there was a terrific knocking at the door which opened
directly into the parlor in which the waiting women were standing, and
the farm-wife jumped and staggered back, and, finally, collapsed into
an adjacent chair.
"Sakes on us," she cried, her fat face turning a sort of pea-green,
"if only my pore George D.----"
But Joan's patience could stand no more.
"For goodness' sake go back to your kitchen, you absurd creature. I'll
see to the matter. I----"
But the old woman wobbled to her feet almost weeping.
"Now, don't 'ee, miss," she cried in her tearful anxiety, getting her
form of address right the first time. "Don't 'ee be rash. Ther'll be
blood spilt, ther' sure will. Ther's on'y one way, miss, you must talk
'em nice, an', an' if they go fer to take liberties, you--why you,"
she edged toward her kitchen, "you jest send for me right away."
She hurried out, and the moment she was out of sight fled
precipitately to the farthest extremity of her own domain and armed
herself with the heavy iron shaker of the cook-stove.
In the meantime Joan went to the door and flung it wide open. In spite
of the farm-wife's warnings she had not a shadow of doubt as to the
peaceful object of the visitation, and rather felt that in some sort
of way it was intended as an expression of good-will and greeting. Had
not Buck told her that they held her in the light of some sort of
benefactor? So she stood in the doorway erect and waiting, with a calm
face, on which there was not a shadow of a smile.
She took in the gathering at a glance, and her eyes came to rest upon
the foremost figure of Montana Ike. She noted his slim, boyish figure,
the weak, animal expression shining in his furtive eyes. To her he
looked just what he was, a virile specimen of reckless young manhood,
of vicious and untamed spirit. She saw at once that he was standing
out from his companions, and understood that, for the moment at least,
he was their leader.
"Good-evening," she said, her attitude mechanically unbending.
"Evenin', miss," responded Ike bravely, and then relapsed into a
violent condition of blushing through his dirt.
He stood there paralyzed at the girl's beauty. He just gaped foolishly
at her, his eyes seeking refuge in dwelling upon the well-cut skirt
she wore and the perfect whiteness of the lawn shirt-waist, which
permitted the delicate pink tinge of her arms and shoulders to show
through it.
All his bravery was gone--all his assurance. If his life had depended
on it not one word of an address on behalf of his fellows could he
have uttered.
Joan saw his confusion, and mercifully came to his rescue.
"You wish to see me?" she inquired, with a smile which plunged the boy
into even more hopeless confusion.
As no answer was forthcoming she looked appealingly at the other
faces.
"It's very kind of you all to come here," she said gently. "Is--is
there anything I can--do for you?"
Suddenly Beasley's voice made itself heard.
"Git busy, Ike, you're spokesman," he cried. "Git on with the
presentation--ladle out the ad--dress. You're kind o' lookin'
foolish."
He followed up his words with his unpleasant laugh, and it was the
sting the youthful leader needed.
He turned fiercely on the speaker, his momentary paralysis all
vanished.
"Ef I'm spokesman," he cried, "guess we don't need no buttin' in from
Beasley Melford." Then he turned again quickly. "Astin' your pardon,
miss," he added apologetically.
"That's all right," said Joan, smiling amiably. "What are you
'spokesman' for?"
The boy grinned foolishly.
"Can't rightly say, missie." Then he jerked his head in his comrades'
direction. "Guess if you was to ast _them_, they'd call theirselves
_men_."
"I didn't say 'who,' I said 'what,'" Joan protested, with a laugh at
his desperately serious manner.
"'What?'" he murmured, smearing his dirty forehead with a horny hand
in the effort of his task. Then he brightened. "Why, gener'ly
speakin'," he went on, with sudden enthusiasm, "they ain't much
better'n skippin' sheep. Y' see they want to but darsent.
So--wal--they jest set me up to sling the hot air."
The girl looked appealingly at the rough faces for assistance. But
instead of help she only beheld an expression of general discontent
turned on the unconscious back of the spokesman. And coming back to
the boy she pursued the only course possible.
"I--I don't think I quite understand," she said.
Ike readily agreed with her.
"I'm durned sure you can't," he cried heartily. "They jest think it a
rotten kind of a job handin' a red-ha'r'd gal a few words an' an
a'mighty fine hunk o' gold. That's cos they ain't been dragged up jest
right. You can't expect elegant feedin' at a hog trough. Now it's kind
o' diff'rent wi' me. I----"
"Oh, quit," cried the sharp voice of the exasperated Abe Allinson. And
there was no doubt but he was speaking for the rest of the audience.
Pete followed him in a tone of equal resentment.
"That ain't no sort o' way ad--dressin' a leddy," he said angrily.
"Course it ain't," sneered Beasley. "Ther's sure bats roostin' in your
belfry, Ike."
The boy jumped round on the instant. His good-nature could stand the
jibes of his comrades generally, but Beasley's sneers neither he nor
any one else could endure.
"Who's that yappin'?" the youngster cried, glowering into the
speaker's face. "That the feller Buck called an outlaw passon?" he
demanded. His right hand slipped to the butt of his gun. "Say you,"
he cried threateningly, "if you got anything to say I'm right here
yearnin' to listen."
Joan saw the half-drawn weapon, and in the same instant became aware
of a movement on the part of the man Beasley. She was horrified,
expecting one of those fierce collisions she had heard about. But the
moment passed, and, though she did not realize it, it was caused by
Ike's gun leaving its holster first.
Her woman's fear urged her, and she raised a protesting hand.
"Please--please," she cried, her eyes dilating with apprehension.
"What have I done that you should come here to quarrel?"
Buck in the background smiled. He was mentally applauding the girl's
readiness, while he watched the others closely.
Ike turned to her again, and his anger had merged into a comical look
of chagrin.
"Y' see, missie," he said in a fresh tone of apology, "ther's fellers
around here wi' no sort o' manners. They're scairt to death makin' a
big talk to a red-ha'r'd gal, so I jest got to do it. An' I sez it, it
ain't easy, folks like me speechin' to folks like you----"
"Oh, git on!" cried Pete in a tired voice.
"Your hot air's nigh freezin'," laughed Soapy Kid.
"Quit it," cried Ike hotly. "Ain't they an ignorant lot o' hogs?" he
went on, appealing to the smiling girl. "Y' see, missie, we're right
glad you come along. We're prospectin' this layout fer gold an'----"
"An' we ain't had no sort o' luck till you got around," added Pete
hastily.
"In the storm," nodded Curly Saunders.
"All mussed-up an' beat to hell," cried Ike, feeling that he was being
ousted from his rights.
"Yes, an' Buck carried you to home, an' rode in fer the doc, an' had
you fixed right," cried Abe.
Ike looked round indignantly.
"Say, is youse fellers makin' this big talk or me? ain't yearnin', if
any feller's lookin' fer glory."
His challenge was received with a chorus of laughter.
"You're doin' fine," cried the Kid.
Ike favored the speaker with a contemptuous stare and returned to his
work. He shrugged.
"They ain't no account anyway, missie," he assured her, "guess they're
sore. Wal, y' see you come along in the storm, an' what should happen
but the side o' Devil's Hill drops out, an' sets gold rollin' around
like--like taters fallin' through a rotten sack. 'Gold?' sez we, an'
gold it is. 'Who bro't us sech luck?' we asts. An' ther' it is right
ther', so ther' can't be no mistake. Jest a pore, sick gal wi' red
ha'r, all beat to hell an'----"
"Gee, ain't it beautiful!" sneered Curly.
Soapy pretended to weep, and Abe thumped him heavily on the back.
"Cheer up, Kid," he grinned. "'Tain't as bad as it seems. Ike'll feel
better after he's had his vittles."
Pete sniggered.
"Ain't he comic?" he cried. Then, seizing the opportunity, while Ike
turned round to retort he hustled him aside and usurped his place.
"Say, missie, it's jest this, you're the Golden Woman who bro't us our
luck. Some of us ain't got your name right, nor nuthin'. Anyway that
don't figger nuthin'. We ain't had no luck till you come along, so
you're jest our Golden Woman, an' we're goin' to hand you----"
Joan started back as though the man had struck her. Her beautiful
cheeks went a ghastly pallor.
"No--no!" she cried half-wildly.
"And why for not?" demanded Pete.
"But my name is Joan," she cried, a terrible dread almost overpowering
her. "You see 'Golden' isn't my real name," she explained, without
pausing to think. "That's only a nickname my father ga--gave me. I--I
was christened 'Joan.'"
Pete slapped his thigh heavily, and a great grin spread over his face.
"Say, don't it beat the band?" he cried in wild delight. "Don't it?"
he repeated, appealing to the world at large. "'Golden.' That's her
name, an' we only hit on it cos she's got gold ha'r, an' bro't us
gold. An' all the time her pa used to call her 'Golden.' Can you beat
it?" Then he looked into Joan's face with admiring eyes. "Say, missie,
that's your name for jest as long as you stop around this layout.
That's her name, ain't it, boys?" He appealed to the crowd. "Here,
give it her good an' plenty, boys. Hooray for the 'Golden Woman'!"
Instantly the air was filled with a harsh cheering that left the girl
almost weeping in her terror and misery. But the men saw nothing of
the effect of their good-will. They were only too glad to be able to
find such an outlet to their feelings. When the cheering ceased Pete
thrust out an arm toward her. His palm was stretched open, and lying
on it was the great yellow nugget that the Padre had found--the first
find of the "strike."
"That's it, missie," he cried, his wild eyes rolling delightedly.
"Look right ther'. That's fer you. The Padre found it, an' it's his
to give, an' he sent it to you. That's the sort o' luck you bro't us."
The crowd closed in with necks craning to observe the wonderful nugget
of gold; to the finding of its kind their lives were devoted. Beasley
was at Pete's elbow, the greediest of them all.
"It wasn't no scrapin' an' scratchin' luck," the enthusiastic Pete
hurried on. "It was gold in hunks you bro't us."
Beasley's eyes lit, and Buck, watching closely, edged in.
"It's a present to you, missie," Pete went on. "That's wot we come
for. Jest to hand you that nugget. Nigh sixty ounces solid gold, an'
the first found at this yer camp."
Balanced on his hand he thrust it farther out for the girl to take,
but she shrank back. Beasley saw the movement and laughed. He pointed
at it and leered up into her face.
"You're sure right," he cried. "Don't you touch it. Jest look at it.
Say, can't you fellers see, or are you blind? She ain't blind. She can
see. She's seen wot's ther'. It's a death's head. Gold? Gee, I tell
you it's a death's head! Look at them eye-sockets," he cried, pointing
at the curious moulding of the nugget. "Ther's the nose bones, an' the
jaw. Look at them teeth, too, all gold-filled, same as if a dentist
had done 'em." He laughed maliciously. "It's a dandy present fer a
lady. A keepsake!"
The men were crowding to see the markings which Beasley pointed out.
They were quite plain. They were so obvious that something like horror
lit the superstitious faces. Beasley, watching, saw that he had made
his point, so he hurried on--
"Don't you touch it, miss," he cried gleefully, as though he
thoroughly enjoyed delivering his warning. "It's rotten luck if you
do. That gold is Devil's gold. It's come from Devil's Hill, in a
Devil's storm. It's a death's head, an' there's all the trouble in the
world in it. There's----"
His prophecy remained uncompleted. He was suddenly caught by a
powerful hand, and the next instant he found himself swung to the
outskirts of the crowd with terrific force.
In a furious rage he pulled himself together just in time to see Buck,
pale with anger, seize the nugget from Pete's outstretched palm.
"You don't need to worry with the trouble in that gold," he said with
biting coldness, raising it at arm's length above his head.
Then before any one was aware of his intention he flung it with all
his force upon the flagstone at Joan's feet. Quickly he stooped and
picked it up again, and again flung it down with all his strength. He
repeated the process several times, and finally held it out toward the
troubled girl.
"You ken take it now," he said, his whole manner softening. "Guess
Beasley's 'death's head' has gone--to its grave. Ther' ain't no sort
o' trouble can hurt any, if--you only come down on it hard enough. The
trouble ain't in that gold now, only in the back of Beasley's head.
An' when it gets loose, wal--I allow there's folks around here won't
see it come your way. You can sure take it now."
Joan reached out a timid hand, while her troubled violet eyes looked
into Buck's face as though fascinated. The man moved a step nearer,
and the small hand closed over the battered nugget.
"Take it," he said encouragingly. "It's an expression of the good
feelings of the boys. An' I don't guess you need be scared of _them_."
Joan took the gold, but there was no smile in her eyes, no thanks on
her lips. She stepped back to her doorway and passed within.
"I'm tired," she said, and her words were solely addressed to Buck. He
nodded, while she closed the door. Then he turned about.
"Wal!" he said.
And his manner was a decided dismissal.