THE CLAIMS OF DUTY
Half an hour later Joan left the house for the barn.
In that brief space she had lived through one of those swiftly-passing
epochs in human life when mind, heart and inclination are brought into
something approaching actual conflict. But, stern as the fight with
weakness had been, she had emerged chastened and victorious.
Realization had come to her--realization of whither her troubles had
been leading her. She knew she must not abandon herself to the
selfishness which her brief rebellion had prompted. She was young,
inexperienced, and of a highly-sensitive temperament, but she was not
weak. And it was this fact which urged her now. Metaphorically
speaking, she had determined to tackle life with shirt sleeves rolled
up.
She knew that duty was not only duty, but something which was to yield
her a measure of happiness. She knew, too, that duty was not only to
be regarded from a point of view of its benefit to others. There
was a duty to oneself--which must not be claimed for the sin of
selfishness--just as surely as to others; that in its thoroughness of
performance lay the secret of all that was worth having in life, and
that the disobedience of the laws of such duty, the neglect of them,
was to outrage the canons of all life's ethics, and to bring down upon
the head of the offender the inevitable punishment.
She must live her life calmly, honestly, whatever the fate hanging
over her. That was the first and most important decision she arrived
at. She must not weakly yield to panic inspired by superstitious
dread. To do so was, she felt, to undermine her whole moral being. She
must ignore this shadow, she must live a life that defied its power.
And when the cloud grew too black, if that method were not sufficient
to dispel it, she must appeal for alleviation and support from that
Power which would never deny its weak and helpless creatures. She knew
that human endurance of suffering was intended to be limited, and that
when that limit was honestly reached support was still waiting for the
sufferer.
Thus she left the house in a chastened spirit, and once more full of
youthful courage. The work, the new life she had chosen for herself,
must fill every moment of her waking hours. And somehow she felt that
with her stern resolve had come a foretaste of that happiness she
demanded of life. Her spirits rose as she neared the barn, and a wild
excitement filled her as she contemplated a minute inspection of her
belongings and her intention to personally minister to their wants.
Something of the instinct of motherhood stirred in her veins at the
thought. These were hers to care for--hers to attend and "do" for. She
laughed as she thought of the family awaiting her. What a family. Yes,
why not? These creatures were for the guardianship of the human race.
With all their physical might they were helpless dependents on human
aid. Yes, they must be thought for and cared for. They were her
family. And she laughed again.
The barn was a sturdy building. Nor was it unpicturesque with its
solid, dovetailed lateral logs and heavy thatched roof. She saw that
it was built with the same care and finish as the house that was now
her home. She could not help wondering at the manner of man who had
designed and built it. She saw in it such deliberateness, such skill.
There was nothing here of the slap-dash prairie carpenter she had read
of--the man who flung up buildings simply for the needs of the moment.
These were buildings that might last for ages and still retain all
their original weather-proof comfort for the creatures they sheltered.
She felt pleased with this man Moreton Kenyon.
She passed round the angle of the building to the doorway, and paused
for a moment to admire the scheme of the farm. Every building fronted
on a largish open space, which was split by the waters of Yellow
Creek, beyond which lay the corrals. Here was forethought. The
operative part of the farm was hidden from the house, and every detail
of it was adjacent one to another. There was the wagon shed with a
wagon in it, and harvesting implements stabled in perfect order. There
were the hog-pens, the chicken-houses; the sheds for milch cows. There
was the barn and the miniature grain store; then, across the creek, a
well, with accompanying drinking-trough, corrals with lowing kine in
them; a branding cage. And beyond these she could see a vista of
fenced pastures.
As she stood reveling in the survey of her little possession the
thought recurred to her that this was hers, all hers. It was the home
of her family, and she laughed still more happily as she passed into
the barn.
Pushing the door open she found herself greeted in the half-light by a
chorus of equine whinnying such as she had never before experienced,
and the sound thrilled her. There stood the team of great Clydesdale
horses, their long, fiddle heads turned round staring at her with
softly inquiring eyes. She wanted to cry out in her joy, but,
restraining herself, walked up beside the nearest of them and patted
its glossy sides. Her touch was a caress which more than gave
expression to her delight.
Those were precious moments to Joan. They were so precious, indeed,
that she quite forgot the purpose which had brought her there. She
forgot that it was hers to tend and feed these great, helpless
creatures. It was enough for her to sit on the swinging bail between
the stalls, and revel in the gentle nuzzling of two velvety noses. In
those first moments her sensations were unforgettable. The joy of it
all held her in its thrall, and, for the moment at least, there was
nothing else in the world.
The moments passed unheeded. Every sound was lost to her. And so it
came about that she did not hear the galloping of a horse approaching.
She did not hear it come to a halt near by. She did not even notice
the figure that presently filled the doorway. And only did her first
realization of the intrusion come with the pleasant sound of a man's
deep voice.
"Bob an' Kitty's kind o' friendly, Miss Joan," it said.
The girl turned with a jump and found herself confronted by Buck's
smiling face. And oddly enough her first flash of thought was that
this man had used her own name, and not her nickname, and she was
grateful to him.
Then she saw that he had the fork in his hand with which she had first
seen him, and she remembered his overnight promise to do those very
things for her which she had set out to do, but, alas! had forgotten
all about.
His presence became a reproach at once, and a slight pucker of
displeasure drew her even brows together.
"You're very kind," she began, "but----"
Buck's smile broadened.
"'But's' a ter'ble word," he said. "It most always goes ahead of
something unpleasant." He quietly laid the fork aside, and, gathering
an armful of hay, proceeded to fill Kitty's manger. "Now what
you wer' going to say was something like that old--I mean your
housekeeper--said, only you wouldn't say it so mean. You jest want to
say I'm not to git around doing the chores here for the reason you
can't accept favors, an' you don't guess it would be right to offer me
pay, same as a 'hired' man."
He hayed Bob's manger, and then loosened both horses' collar chains.
"If you'll sit on the oat-box I'll turn 'em round an' take 'em to
water at the trough. That's it."
Joan obeyed him without a word, and the horses were led out. And while
they were gone the girl was left to an unpleasant contemplation of the
situation. She determined to deal with the matter boldly, however, and
began the moment he returned.
"You're quite right, Mr. Buck," she began.
"Buck--jest plain Buck," he interrupted her. "But I hadn't jest
finished," he went on deliberately. "I want to show you how you can't
do those things the old--your housekeeper was yearnin' to do. Y' see,
you can't get a 'hired' man nearer than Leeson Butte. You can't get
him in less'n two weeks. You can't do the chores yourself, an' that
old--your housekeeper ain't fit to do anything but make hash. Then you
can't let the stock go hungry. Besides all of which you're doing me a
real kindness letting me help you out. Ther's no favor to you. It's
sure to me, an' these creatures which can't do things for themselves.
So it would be a sound proposition to cut that 'but' right out of our
talk an' send word to your lawyer feller in Leeson Butte for a 'hired'
man. An' when he gits around, why--well, you won't be needin' me."
All the time he was speaking his fork was busy clearing the stalls of
their litter, and, at the finish, he leant on the haft of it and
quizzically smiled into the girl's beautiful, half-troubled face.
Joan contemplated protesting, but somehow his manner was so friendly,
so frank and honest, that she felt it would be ungracious of her.
Finally he won the day, and she broke into a little laugh of yielding.
"You talk too--too well for me," she cried. "I oughtn't to accept,"
she added. "I know I oughtn't, but what am I to do? I can't do--these
things." Then she added regretfully: "And I thought it would be all so
simple."
Buck saw her disappointment, and it troubled him. He felt in a measure
responsible, so he hastened to make amends.
"Wal, y' see, men are rough an' strong. They can do the things needed
around a farm. I don't guess women wer' made for--for the rough work
of life. It ain't a thing to feel mean about. It's jest in the nature
of things."
Joan nodded. All the time he was speaking she had been studying him,
watching the play of expression upon his mobile features rather than
paying due attention to his words.
She decided that she liked the look of him. It was not that he
was particularly handsome. He seemed so strong, and yet so--so
unconcerned. She wondered if that were only his manner. She knew that
often volcanic natures, reckless, were hidden under a perfect calm.
She wondered if it were so in his case. His eyes were so full of a
brilliant dark light. Yes, surely this man roused might be an
interesting personality. She remembered him last night. She remembered
the strange, superheated fire in those same eyes when he had hurled
the gold at her feet. Yes, she felt sure a tremendous force lay behind
his calmness of manner.
The man's thoughts were far less analytical. His was not the nature to
search the psychology of a beautiful girl. To him Joan was the most
wonderful thing on earth. She was something to be reverenced, to be
worshipped. His imagination, fired by all his youthful impulse,
endowed her with every gift that the mind of simple manhood could
conceive, every virtue, every beauty of mind as well as body.
Joan watched him for some moments as he continued his work. It was
wonderful how easy he made it seem, how quickly it was done. She even
found herself regretting that in a few minutes the morning "chores"
would be finished, and this man would be away to--where?
"You must have been up very early to get over here," she said
designedly. Her girlish curiosity and interest could no longer be
denied. She must find out what he was and what he did for a living.
"I'm mostly up early," he replied simply.
"Yes, of course. But--you have your own--stock to see to?"
She felt quite pleased with her cunning. But her pleasure was
short-lived.
"Sure," he returned, with disarming frankness.
"It really doesn't seem fair that you should have the double work,"
she went on, with another attempt to penetrate his reserve.
Buck's smile was utterly baffling. He walked to the door of the barn
and gave a prolonged, low whistle. Then he came back.
"It sure wouldn't be fair if I didn't," he said simply.
"But you must have heaps to do on your--farm," Joan went on, feeling
that she was on the right track at last "Look at what you're doing for
me. These horses, the cattle, the--the pigs and things. I've no doubt
you have much more to see to of your own."
At that moment the head of Caesar appeared in the doorway. He stared
round the familiar stable evidently searching for his master. Finally
catching sight of him, he clattered in to the place and rubbed his
handsome head against Buck's shoulder.
"This is my stock," Buck said, affectionately rubbing the creature's
nose. "An' I generally manage to see to him while the kettle's boilin'
for breakfast."
Just for a moment Joan felt abashed at her deliberate attempt to pump
her companion. Then the quick, inquiring survey of the beautiful horse
was too much for her, and she left her seat to join in the caresses.
"Isn't he a beauty?" she cried, smoothing his silken face from the
star on his forehead to the tip of his wide muzzle.
Just for a second her hand came into contact with the man's, and, all
unconscious, she let it remain. Then suddenly realizing the position
she drew it away rather sharply.
Buck made no move, but had she only looked up she must have noted the
sudden pallor of his face. That brief touch, so unconscious, so
unmeaning, had again set his pulses hammering through his body. And it
had needed all his control to repress the fiery impulse that stirred
him. He longed to kiss that soft white hand. He longed to take it in
his own strong palms and hold it for his own, to keep it forever. But
the moment passed, and when he spoke it was in the same pleasant, easy
fashion.
"I kind o' thought I ought to let him go with the farm," he said,
"only the Padre wouldn't think of it. He'd have made a dandy feller
for you to ride."
But Joan was up in arms in a moment.
"I'd never have forgiven you if you'd parted with him," she cried.
"He's--he's perfectly beautiful."
Buck nodded.
"He's a good feller." And his tone said far more than his words.
He led the beast to the door, and, giving him an affectionate slap,
sent him trotting off.
"I must git busy," he said, with a laugh. "The hay needs cuttin'.
Guess I'll cut till dinner. After that I've got to quit till sundown.
I'll go right on cuttin' each mornin' till your 'hired' man comes
along. Y' see if it ain't cut now we'll be too late. I'll just throw
the harness on Kitty an' Bob an' leave 'em to git through with their
feed while I see the hogs fed. Guess that old--your housekeeper can
milk? I ran the cows into the corral as I came up. Seems to me she
could do most things she got fixed on doing."
Joan laughed.
"She was 'fixed' on sending you about what she called 'your
business,'" she said slyly.
Buck raised his brows in mock chagrin.
"Guess she succeeded, too. I sure got busy right away--until you come
along, and--and got me quittin'."
"Oh!" Joan stared at him with round eyes of reproach. Then she burst
out laughing. "Well, now you shall hear the truth for that, and you'll
have to answer me too, Mr. Buck."
"Buck--jest plain Buck."
The girl made an impatient little movement.
"Well, then, 'Buck.' I simply came along to thank you, and to tell you
that I couldn't allow your help--except as a 'hired' man. And--I'm
afraid you'll think me very curious--I came to find out who you were,
and how you came to find me and bring me home here. And--and I wanted
to know--well, everything about my arrival. And you--you've made it
all very difficult. You--insist on doing all this for me.
You're--you're not so kind as I thought."
Joan's complaint was made half-laughingly and half-seriously. Buck saw
the reality underlying her words, but determined to ignore it and only
answer her lighter manner.
"If you'd only asked me these things I'd have told you right away," he
protested, smiling. "Y' see you never asked me."
"I--I was trying to," Joan said feebly.
Buck paused in the act of securing Kitty's harness.
"That old--your housekeeper wouldn't ha' spent a deal of time trying,"
he said dryly.
Joan ignored the allusion.
"I don't believe you intend to tell me now," she said.
Buck left the stall and stood before the corn-box. His eyes were still
smiling though his manner was tremendously serious.
"You're wantin' to know who I am," he said. Then he paused, glancing
out of the doorway, and the girl watched the return of that thoughtful
expression which she had come to associate with his usual manner.
"Wal," he said at last, in his final way, "I'm Buck, and I was picked
up on the trail-side, starving, twenty years ago by the Padre. He's
raised me, an' we're big friends. An' now, since we sold his farm,
we're living at the old fur fort, back ther' in the hills, and we're
goin' to get a living pelt hunting. I've got no folks, an' no name
except Buck. I was called Buck. All I can remember is that my folks
were farmers, but got burnt out in a prairie fire, and--burnt to
death. That's why I was on the trail starving when the Padre found
me."
Joan's eyes had softened with a gentle sympathy, but she offered no
word.
"'Bout the other," the man went on, turning back to the girl, and
letting his eyes rest on her fair face, "that's easy, too. I was at
the shack of the boys in the storm. You come along an' wer' lying
right ther' on the door-sill when I found you. I jest carried you
right here. Y' see, I guessed who you wer'. Your cart was wrecked on
the bank o' the creek----"
"And the teamster?" Joan's eyes were eagerly appealing.
Buck turned away.
"Oh, guess he was ther' too." Then he abruptly moved toward the
horses. "Say, I'll get on an' cut that hay."
Joan understood. She knew that the teamster was dead. She sighed
deeply, and as the sound reached him Buck looked round. It was on the
tip of his tongue to say some word of comfort, for he knew that Joan
had understood that the man was dead, but the girl herself, under the
influence of her new resolve, made it unnecessary. She rose from her
seat, and her manner suggested a forced lightness.
"I'll go and feed the chickens," she said. "I--I ought to be capable
of doing that."
Buck smiled as he prepared to go and see to the hogs.
"Guess you won't have trouble--if you know what to give 'em," he said.
Nor was he quite sure if the girl were angry or smiling as she hurried
out of the barn.