WHEN LIFE HOLDS NO SHADOWS
The mellow evening light glows with a living warmth of color upon
hill, and valley, and plain. The myriad tints shine in perfect
harmony, for Nature is incapable of discord whether in her reign of
beauty or her moments of terror. Discord belongs to the imperfect
human eye, the human brain, the human heart. Thus must the most
perfect human creation be ever imperfect.
But Nature's perfections are never lost upon the human mind. They are
not intended to be lost. They serve well their purpose of elevating,
of uplifting all thought, and affording inspiration for all that which
is good and beautiful in hearts thrilling with emotions which need
strong support to save them from their own weaknesses.
Something of this influence was at work in the hearts of a man and a
girl riding over the hard sand trail in the pleasant evening light.
The man's youthful heart was thrilling with a hope he dared not
attempt to define, and could not if he would. His every feeling was
inspired by a joy he had no proper understanding of. The glance of his
dark eyes bespoke his mood, and his buoyancy seemed to communicate
itself to the great horse under him. All he knew was that the glory of
the day was all about him, and, beside him, Joan was riding the
Padre's sturdy horse.
The girl at his side was no less uplifted. At the moment shadows
troubled her not at all. They were gone, merged into soft, hazy gauzes
through which peeped the scenes of life as she desired life to be, and
every picture was rose-tinted with the wonderful light of an evening
sun.
Her fair young face was radiant; a wonderful happiness shone in the
violet depths of her eyes. Her sweet lips were parted, displaying her
even, white teeth, and her whole expression was much that of a child
who, for the first time, opens its eyes to the real joy of living.
Every now and again she drew a deep, long sigh of content and
enjoyment.
For a while they rode in silence, their bodies swaying easily to the
rhythmic gait of the horses. Their direction lay toward the sun, that
direction which ever makes for hope. Ahead of them, and behind them,
lay the forest of tall, garbless trunks, their foliage-crowned,
disheveled heads nodding in the light breezes from the hilltops, which
left the lower atmosphere undisturbed. The scented air, pungent with
pleasant odors, swept them by as their horses loped easily along. It
was a moment of perfect peace, a moment when life could hold no
shadows.
But such feelings are only for the silent moments of perfect
companionship. The spoken word, which indexes thought, robs them of
half their charm and beauty. The girl felt something of this as the
calm voice of her companion broke the wonderful spell.
"That feller's shaping well," he said, his thoughts for the moment
evidently upon the practical side of her comfort.
The girl nodded. That look of rapturous joy had left her, and she too
became practical.
"I think so--when Mrs. Ransford leaves him alone," she said, with a
little laugh. "She declares it is always necessary to harass a 'hired'
man from daylight to dark. If I were he I'd get out into the pastures,
or hay sloughs, or forest, or somewhere, and stay there till she'd
gone to bed. Really, Buck, she's a terrible woman."
In the growing weeks of companionship Joan had learned to use this
man's name as familiarly as though she had known him all her life. It
would have seemed absurd to call him anything but Buck now. Besides,
she liked doing so. The name fitted him. "Buck;" it suggested to
her--spirit, independence, courage, everything that was manly; and she
had long ago decided that he was all these things--and more.
Buck laughed in his quiet fashion. He rarely laughed loudly. Joan
thought it sounded more like a deep-throated gurgle.
"She sure is," he declared heartily.
"Of course," Joan smiled. "You have crossed swords with her."
The man shook his head.
"Not me," he said. "She did the battlin'. Guess I sat tight. You see,
words ain't as easy to a man, as to--some women."
Joan enjoyed the tact of his remark. She leant forward and smoothed
the silky neck of the Padre's horse, and Buck's admiring eyes took in
the perfect lines of her well-cut habit. He had never seen anything
like it before, and failed to understand the excellence of its
tailoring, but he knew that everything about this girl was wonderfully
beautiful, and he would have liked to have been able to tell her so.
As he watched her he could not help thinking of the moment when he had
held her in his arms. It was a thought almost always with him, a
thought which never failed to stir his pulses and set them racing.
"But you see I can't do without her," the girl went on as she sat up
in her saddle again. "She's a good worker, herself. She's taught me a
good deal already. Oh, yes," she smiled at his look of incredulity,
"I've begun my lessons. I am learning all I can, preparing for the
bigger lessons of this--this"--she gave a comprehensive glance at the
hills--"wonderful world."
Buck nodded. But he rode on in silence, his face for the moment
clouded with deep thought. He was thinking of that night in Beasley's
store. He was thinking of what might have happened there if those
women had carried out their purpose. He was wondering what the lessons
might be that this girl might yet find herself confronted with. The
matter troubled him. And Joan's surreptitious glance into his face
warned her that the cloud had obscured his sun.
The man finally broke the silence.
"Have you got any menfolk?" he asked abruptly.
Joan turned quickly.
"No--why?"
"An uncle--a brother. Maybe a--father?"
There was something almost anxious in Buck's manner as he enumerated
the possible relationships.
But the girl shook her head at each one, and he went on in a tone of
disappointment.
"It's kind of a pity," he observed. Then, in answer to the girl's
quick look of inquiry, he added evasively: "You see it's lonesome for
a gal--out in these hills."
Joan knew that that was not the reason of his inquiry, and she smiled
quietly at her horse's ears.
"Why did you want to know if I had--menfolk?" she asked. "I mean the
real reason." She looked up frankly smiling, and compelled his
attention.
Buck was not easy to corner, even though he had no experience of
women. Again Joan heard his strange gurgle, and her smile broadened.
"You could sure learn your lessons easier with your menfolk around to
help you," he said.
For a second the girl's face dropped. Then she laughed good-humoredly.
"You're smart, Buck," she exclaimed. "But--but you're most
exasperating. Still, I'll tell you. The only relative I have in the
world, that I know of, is--Aunt Mercy."
"Ah! she's a woman."
"Yes, a woman."
"It's a pity." Suddenly Buck pointed ahead at a great mass of towering
rock above the trees. "There's Devil's Hill!" he exclaimed.
Joan looked up, all eager delight to behold this wonderful hill Buck
had brought her out to see. She expected something unusual, for
already she had listened to several accounts of this place and the
gold "strike" she was supposed to have brought about. Nor was she
disappointed now, at least at first. She stared with wondering eyes at
the weird, black giant raising its ugly head in a frowning threat
above them, and gave a gasp of surprise.
Then in a moment her surprise died out, and into her eyes crept a
strange look of repulsion and even fear. She had no words to offer.
She made no move. It was almost as if she sat fascinated like some
harmless bird held by the hypnotic stare of a python. So long did she
remain silent that Buck at last turned and looked into her face. And
something like alarm caught and held him when he beheld her gray look
of horror as she faced the gloomy crags mounting up before them.
He too looked out ahead. But his imagination failed him, and his eyes
came back to her. The change in her happy, smiling eyes was
incredible. Her smile had gone utterly--the bright color of her
cheeks. There was no awe in her look, neither curiosity nor
admiration. To him it almost seemed that her whole body was thrilled
with an utter repugnance and loathing at what she beheld.
"It's--ugly," he hazarded at last.
"It's--it's dreadful." The girl's reply came in a tone there was no
mistaking. It was one of concentrated detestation.
"You don't--like it?" Buck felt helpless.
But Joan's next words left him without any doubt.
"I--I think I--hate it," she said harshly.
Buck drew rein on the instant.
"Then we'll get back to home."
But Joan had no such intention.
"No--no!" she exclaimed quickly. "We'll go on. I want to see it. I--I
_must_ see it."
Her manner had suddenly become agitated, and Buck was left wondering
the more. She was stirred with strange feelings which embodied a dozen
different emotions, and it was the sight of that great black crown,
like the head of a Gorgon, which had inspired them. Its fascination
was one of cruel attraction. Its familiarity suggested association
with some part of her life. It seemed as if she belonged to it, or
that it belonged to her--that in some curious way it was actually a
part of her life. And all the time her detestation, her fear surged
through her heart and left her revolting. But she knew she must go on.
Its fascination claimed her and drew her, calling to her with a
summons she dared not disobey--had no real desire to disobey.
It was she who took the lead now. She pressed on at a rapid gallop.
Her fair young face was set and cold. She remained silent, and her
manner forbade the man's interruption.
But Buck kept pace with her, and a great sympathy held him silent too.
He had no real understanding of her mood, only he knew that, for the
moment, his presence had no place in her thought.
So they drew toward the shadow of the hill. Each was lost in disturbed
reflections. Joan was waiting, expectant of she knew not what, and the
man, filled with puzzlement, knew that the solution lay only with the
girl beside him.
It had been his thought to point out the things which his practiced
mind suggested as of interest, but now, as he beheld the rapt
expression of her face, it all became different. Therefore he checked
the eager Caesar and let her lead the way.
Joan had no observation for anything as she rode on right up to the
very shadow of the suspended lake. Then, almost mechanically, as
though urged by some unseen hand, she drew up sharply. She was no
longer looking at the hill, she sat in her saddle limply, and stared
vacantly at the rough workings of the miners which had been abandoned
for the day.
Still Buck waited in silence.
At last he had his reward. The girl made a movement almost like a
shiver. Then she sat up erect. The color came back to her cheeks and
she turned to him with eyes in which a ghost of a smile flitted.
"I--I had forgotten," she said half-apologetically. "This is what has
brought prosperity to the camp. This is what has saved them from
starvation. We--we should owe it gratitude."
"I don't guess the rocks need gratitude," replied Buck quietly.
"No!"
Joan looked up at the black roof above her and shivered.
"It's a weird place, where one might well expect weird happenings."
Buck smiled. He was beginning to obtain some insight into the girl's
mood. So used was he to the gloomy hill that its effect was quite lost
on him. Now he knew that some superstitious chord had been struck in
the girl's feelings, and this strange hill had been the medium of its
expression.
He suddenly leant forward. Resting on the horn of his saddle he looked
into the fair face he so loved. He had seen that haunted look in her
face before. He remembered his first meeting with her at the barn. Its
termination had troubled him then. It had troubled him since. He
remembered the incident when the gold had been presented to her. Again
he had witnessed that hunted, terrified look, that strange
overpowering of some painful thought--or memory.
Now he felt that she needed support, and strove with all his power to
afford it her.
"Guess ther's nothing weird outside the mind of man," he said.
"Anyway, nothing that needs to scare folk." He turned and surveyed the
hill and the wonderful green country surrounding them. "Get a look
around," he went on, with a comprehensive gesture. "This rock--it's
just rock, natural rock; it's rock you'll find most anywhere. It's got
dumped down right here wher' most things are green, an' dandy, an'
beautiful to the eye; so it looks queer, an' sets your thoughts
gropin' among the cobwebs of mystery. Ther's sure no life to it but
the life of rock. This great overhang has just been cut by washouts of
centuries in spring, when the creek's in flood, an' it just happens
ther's a hot sulphur lake on top, fed by a spring. I've known it these
years an' years. Guess it's sure always been the same. It ain't got
enough to it to scare a jack-rabbit."
Joan shook her head. But the man was glad to see the return of her
natural expression, and that her smiling eyes were filled with a
growing interest He knew that her strange mood was passing.
He went on at once in his most deliberate fashion.
"You needn't to shake your head," he said, with a smile of confidence.
"It's jest the same with everything. It sure is. We make life what it
is for ourselves. It's the same for everybody, an' each feller gets
busy makin' it different. The feller that gets chasin' trouble don't
need to run. He only needs to set around and shout. Guess it'll come
along if he's yearnin' for it. But it don't come on its own. That's
sure as sure. Keep brain an' body busy doin' the things that lie
handy, an' when you got to make good among the rocks of life, why, I
sure guess you won't find a rock half big enough to stop you."
Watching the deep glowing eyes of the man Joan felt that his
confidence was not merely the confidence of brave words. A single
glance into his purposeful face left the definite impression that his
was a strength that is given to few. It was the strength of a simple,
honest mind as yet unfouled by the grosser evils of an effete
civilization. His was the force and courage of the wild--the impulse
which governs all creatures who live in the midst of Nature's
battle-grounds.
"That's--that's because you're so strong you feel that way," she said,
making no attempt to disguise the admiration she felt. "The burden of
life does not always fall so easily. There are things, too, in spite
of what you say, that we cannot control--evils, I mean evils which
afflict us."
Buck glanced away down the creek. Then his eyes came back to her, and
a new resolve lay behind them.
"I'm no stronger than others," he said. "Guess I haven't ha'f the
strength of some. I'd say----" he paused. Then he went on, his eyes
gazing fearlessly into hers: "I'd say I haven't ha'f the strength of a
gal who gives up the city--a young gal jest beginning a woman's life
with 'most everything in her favor--an' comes right out here to farm
without a livin' soul to pass her a hand. I ain't got ha'f the courage
of a gal who does that jest because she's chased by thoughts that
worry her an' make her days no better than to set her--hatin' them.
Strength? Say, when you ken laff an' all the time feel that life ain't
ha'f so pleasant as death, why, I'd sure say ther' ain't no greater
strength this side of the check-taker's box."
Joan could hardly believe her ears as she listened. Astonishment,
resentment, helplessness, incredulity, all struggled for place. How
had this man discovered her secret? How? How? What did he know
besides? For a moment her feelings robbed her of speech and betrayed
themselves in her expressive face.
But the man's smile, so easy, so disarming, held her. He saw and
understood, and he hastened to reassure her.
"Guess I ain't pryin'," he said bluntly. "These things just come along
to my tongue, feeling you were troubled at this--hill. You've told me
a heap since you come to the farm. You told me things which I don't
guess you wer' yearnin' to tell any one. But you didn't tell 'em with
your tongue. An' I don't guess you need to. Set your mind easy. You're
scared to death of some trouble which ain't of your seekin'--wal, I
don't believe in such trouble."
Then he laughed in so unconcerned, so buoyant and whole-hearted a
fashion that Joan's confidence and hope leapt again.
"Say," he added, as he saw the brightening of her face, "when you
fancy that trouble's gettin' around, when you fancy it's good an' big,
an' a whole heap to carry, why, you can pass it right on to me. I'm
yearnin' to get busy with jest sech a proposition."
Buck's manner was irresistible. Joan felt herself swept along by it.
She longed there and then to tell him the whole of her miserable
little story. Yes, he made it seem so small to her now. He made it, at
the moment, seem like nothing. It was almost as though he had
literally lifted her burden and was bearing the lion's share of it
himself. Her heart thrilled with gratitude, with joy in this man's
wonderful comradeship. She longed to open her heart to him--to implore
him to shield her from all those terrible anxieties which beset her.
She longed to feel the clasp of his strong hand in hers and know that
it was there to support her always. She felt all these things without
one shadow of fear--somehow his very presence dispelled her shadows.
But only did she permit her warm smile to convey something of all she
felt as she rejected his offer.
"You don't know what you are asking," she said gently. Then she shook
her head. "It is impossible. No one can shift the burdens of life on
to the shoulders of another--however willing they be. No one has the
right to attempt it. As we are born, so we must live. The life that is
ours is ours alone."
Buck caught at her words with a sudden outburst of passionate
remonstrance.
"You're wrong--dead wrong," he declared vehemently, his eyes glowing
with the depth of feeling stirring him, a hot flush forcing its way
through the deep tanning of his cheeks. "No gal has a right to carry
trouble with a man around to help. She's made for the sunlight, for
the warmth an' ease of life. She's made to set around an' take in all
those good things the good God meant for her so she can pass 'em right
on to the kiddies still to be born. A woman's jest the mother of the
world. An' the men she sets on it are there to see her right. The
woman who don't see it that way is wrong--dead wrong. An' the man that
don't get right up on to his hind legs an' do those things--wal, he
ain't a man."
It was a moment Joan would never forget. As long as she lived that
eager face, with eyes alight, the rapid tongue pouring out the
sentiments of his simple heart must ever remain with her. It was a
picture of virile manhood such as in her earliest youth she had
dreamed of, a dream which had grown dimmer and dimmer as she
progressed toward womanhood and learned the ways of the life that had
been hers. Here it was in all reality, in all its pristine simplicity,
but--she gathered up her reins and moved her horse round, heading him
toward home.
"I'm glad I came out here--in the wilderness," she said earnestly.
"I'm glad, too, that I came to see this great black hill. Yes, and I'm
glad to think that I have begun the lessons which this great big world
is going to teach me. For the rest--we'd better go home. Look! The
daylight is going."