A WHIRLWIND VISIT
Joan was idling dispiritedly over her breakfast. A long, wakeful night
had at last ended in the usual aching head and eyes ringed with
shadows. She felt dreary, and looked forward drearily to inspecting
her farm--which, in her normal state, would have inspired nothing but
perfect delight--with something like apprehension.
Her beginning in the new life had been swamped in a series of
disastrous events which left her convinced of the impossibility of
escape from the painful shadow of the past. All night her brain had
been whirling in a perfect chaos of thought as she reviewed her advent
to the farm. There had been nothing, from her point of view, but
disaster upon disaster. First her arrival. Then--why, then the "luck"
of the gold find. In her eyes, what was that but the threat of
disaster to come? Had not her aunt told her that this extraordinary
luck that she must ever bring was part of the curse shadowing her
life? Then the coincidence of her nickname. It was truly hideous. The
very incongruity of it made it seem the most terrible disaster of all.
Surely, more than anything else, it pointed the hand of Fate. It was
her father's nickname for her, and he--he had been the worst sufferer
at her hands.
The whole thing seemed so hopeless, so useless. What was the use of
her struggle against this hateful fate? A spirit of rebellion urged
her, and she felt half-inclined to abandon herself to the life that
was hers; to harden herself, and, taking the cup life offered her,
drain it to the dregs. Why should she waste her life battling with a
force which seemed all-powerful? Why should she submit to the terror
of it? What were the affairs of these others to her? She was not
responsible. Nothing in the whole sane world of ethics could hold her
responsible.
The spirit of rebellion, for the moment, obtained the upper hand. She
had youth; Fortune had bestowed a face and figure upon her that she
need not be ashamed of, and a healthy capacity for enjoyment. Then why
should she abandon all these gifts because of a fate for which she was
in no way responsible?
She pushed back her chair from the table, and crossed to the open
front door.
The sun was not yet up, and the morning air was dewy and fresh with
perfumes such as she had never experienced in St. Ellis. It was--yes,
it was good to be alive on such a day in spite of everything.
She glanced out over the little farm--her farm. Yes, it was all hers,
bought and paid for, and she still had money for all her needs and to
do those things she wanted to do. She turned away and looked back into
the little parlor with its simple furnishings, its mannish odds and
ends upon the wall. She heard the sounds of the old housekeeper busy
in her heavy, blundering way with the domestic work of her home. She
had so many plans for the future, and every one in its inception had
given her the greatest delight. Now--now this hideous skeleton had
stepped from its cupboard and robbed her of every joy. No, she would
not stand it. She would steel her heart to these stupid, girlish
superstitions. She would--
Her gloomy reflections were abruptly cut short. There was a rush and
clatter. In a perfect whirlwind of haste a horseman dashed up, dragged
his horse back on to its haunches as he pulled up, and flung out of
the saddle.
It was the boy, Montana Ike. He grabbed his disreputable hat from his
ginger head, and stared agape at the vision of loveliness he had come
in search of.
"Good--good-morning," Joan said, hardly knowing how to greet this
strange apparition.
The boy nodded, and moistened his lips as though consumed by a sudden
thirst.
For a moment they stared stupidly at each other. Then Joan, feeling
the awkwardness of the situation, endeavored to relieve it.
"Daylight?" she exclaimed interrogatively, "and you not yet out at
the--where the gold is?"
Ike shook his head and grinned the harder. Then his tongue loosened,
and his words came with a sudden rush that left the girl wondering.
"Y' see the folks is eatin' breakfast," he said. "Y' see I jest cut it
right out, an' come along. I heard Pete--you know Blue Grass
Pete--he's a low-down Kentuckian--he said he tho't some un orter git
around hyar case you was queer after last night. Sed he guessed he
would. Guess I'll git back 'fore they're busy. It'll take 'em all
hustlin' to git ahead o' me."
"That's very kind," Joan replied mechanically. But the encouragement
was scarcely needed. The boy rushed on, like a river in flood time.
"Oh, it ain't zac'ly kind!" he said. "Y' see they're mostly a low-down
lot, an' Pete's the low-downest. He's bad, is Pete, an' ain't no
bizness around a leddy. Then Beasley Melford. He's jest a durned skunk
anyways. Don't guess Curly Saunders ain't much account neither. He
makes you sick to death around a whisky bottle. Abe Allinson, he's
sort o' mean, too. Y' see Abe's Slaney Dick's pardner, an' they bin
workin' gold so long they ain't got a tho't in their gray heads 'cept
gold an' rot-gut rye. Still, they're better'n the Kid. The Kid's soft,
so we call him Soapy. Guess you orter know 'em all right away. Y' see
it's easy a gal misbelievin' the rights o' folks."
Joan smiled. Something of the man's object was becoming plain.
She studied his face while he was proceeding to metaphorically nail up
each of these men's coffins, and the curious animal alertness of it
held her interest. His eyes were wide and restless, and a hardness
marked the corners of his rather loose mouth. She wondered if that
hardness were natural, or whether it had been acquired in the
precarious life that these people lived.
"It's just as well to know--everybody," she said gently.
"Oh, it sure is, in a country like this," the man went on confidently.
"That's why I come along. Fellers chasin' gold is a hell of a bad
outfit. Y' see, I ain't bin long chasin' gold, an' I don't figger to
keep at it long neither. Y' see, I got a good claim. Guess it's sure
the best. We drew lots for 'em last night. It was the Padre fixed that
up. He's a great feller, the Padre. An' I got the best one--wher' the
Padre found that nugget you got. Oh, I'm lucky--dead lucky! Guess
I'll git a pile out o' my claim, sure. A great big pile. Then I'm
goin' to live swell in a big city an' have a great big outfit of folks
workin' fer me. An' I'll git hooked up with a swell gal. It'll be a
bully proposition. Guess the gal'll be lucky, cos I'll have such a big
pile."
The youngster's enthusiasm and conceit were astounding. Nor could Joan
help the coldness they inspired in her voice.
"She will be lucky--marrying you," she agreed. "But--aren't you afraid
you'll miss something if the others get out to the hill before you? I
mean, they being such a bad lot."
The man became serious for a second before he answered. Then, in a
moment, his face brightened into a grin of confidence.
"Course you can't trust 'em," he said, quite missing Joan's desire to
be rid of him. "But I don't guess any of 'em's likely to try monkey
tricks. Guess if any feller robbed me I'd shoot him down in his
tracks. They know that, sure. Oh, no, they won't play no monkey
tricks. An' anyway, I ain't givin' 'em a chance."
He moved toward his horse and replaced the reins over its neck in
spite of his brave words. Joan understood. She saw the meanness
underlying his pretended solicitation for her well-being. All her sex
instincts were aroused, and she quite understood the purpose of the
somewhat brutal youth.
"You're quite right to give them no chances," she said coldly. "And
now, I s'pose, you're going right out to your claim?"
"I am that," exclaimed the other, with a gleam of cupidity in his
shifty eyes. "I'm goin' right away to dig lumps of gold fer to buy
di'monds fer that gal."
He laughed uproariously at his pleasantry as he leapt into the saddle.
But in a moment his mirth had passed, and his whole expression
suddenly hardened as he bent down from the saddle.
"But ef Pete comes around you git busy an' boot him right out. Pete's
bad--a real bad un. He's wuss'n Beasley. Wal, I won't say he's wuss.
But he's as bad. Git me?"
Joan nodded. She had no alternative. The fellow sickened her. She had
been ready to meet him as one of these irresponsible people, ignorant,
perhaps dissipated, but at least well-meaning. But here she found the
lower, meaner traits of manhood she thought were only to be found
amongst the dregs of a city. It was not a pleasant experience, and she
was glad to be rid of him.
"I think I understand. Good-bye."
"You're a bright gal, you sure are," the youth vouchsafed cordially.
"I guessed you'd understand. I like gals who understand quick. That's
the sort o' gal I'm goin' to hitch up with." He grinned, and crushed
his hat well down on his head. "Wal, so long. See you ag'in. Course I
can't git around till after I finish on my claim. Guess you won't feel
lonesome tho', you got to git your farm fixed right. Wal, so long."
Joan nodded as the man rode off, thankful for the termination of his
vicious, whirlwind visit. Utterly disgusted, she turned back to the
house to find Mrs. Ransford standing in the doorway.
"What's he want?" the old woman demanded in her most uncompromising
manner.
The girl laughed mirthlessly.
"I think he wants a little honesty and kindliness knocked into his
very warped nature," she declared, with a sigh.
"Warped? Warped?" The old woman caught at the word, and it seemed to
set her groping in search of adequate epithets in which to express her
feelings. "I don't know what that means. But he's it anyways--they all
are."
And she vanished again into the culinary kingdom over which she
presided.