BUCK LAUGHS AT FATE
The telling of the Padre's story cost Buck a wakeful night. It was not
that he had any doubts either of the truth of the story, or of his
friend. He needed no evidence to convince him of either. Or rather,
such was his nature that no evidence could have broken his faith and
friendship. Strength and loyalty were the key-note of his whole life.
To him the Padre was little less than a god, in whom nothing could
shake his belief. He honored him above all men in the world, and, such
as it was, his own life, his strength, his every nerve, were at his
service. Moreover, it is probable that his loyalty would have been no
whit the less had the man pleaded guilty to the crime he was accused
of.
No, it was not the story he had listened to which kept him wakeful. It
was not the rights or wrongs, or the significance of it, that inspired
his unrest. It was something of a far more personal note.
It was the full awakening of a mind and heart to a true understanding
of themselves. And the manner of his awakening had been little short
of staggering. He loved, and his love had risen up before his eyes in
a manner the full meaning of which he had only just realized. It was
his friend who had brought about his awakening, his friend who had put
into brief words that which had been to him nothing but a delicious
dream.
The man's words rang through his brain the night long.
"Why? Why?" they said. "Because you love this little Joan, daughter of
my greatest friend. Because I owe it to you--to her, to face my
accusers and prove my innocence."
That brief passionate declaration had changed the whole outlook of his
life. The old days, the old thoughts, the old unexpressed feelings and
hazy ambitions had gone--swept away in one wave of absorbing passion.
There was neither future nor past to him now. He lived in the thought
of this woman's delightful presence, and beyond that he could see
nothing.
Vaguely he knew that much must lay before him. The past, well, that
was nothing. He understood that the drift of life's stream could no
longer carry him along without his own effort at guidance. He knew
that somewhere beyond this dream a great battle of Life lay waiting
for his participation. He felt that henceforth he was one of those
struggling units he had always regarded as outside his life. And all
because of this wonderful sunlight of love which shone deep into the
remotest cells of brain and heart. He felt strong for whatever lay
before him. This perfect sunshine, so harmonious with every feeling,
thrilled him with a virile longing to go out and proclaim his defiance
against the waiting hordes in Life's eternal battle. No road could be
so rough as to leave him shrinking, no fight so fierce that he was not
confident of victory, no trouble so great that it could not be borne
with perfect cheerfulness. As he had awakened to love so had he
awakened to life, yearning and eager.
As the long night wore on his thought became clearer, more definite.
So that before his eyes closed at last in a broken slumber he came to
many decisions for the immediate future. The greatest, the most
momentous of these was that he must see Joan again without delay. He
tried to view this in perfect coolness, but though the decision
remained with him the fever of doubt and despair seized him, and he
became the victim of every fear known to the human lover's heart. To
him who had never known the meaning of fear his dread became tenfold
appalling. He must see her--and perhaps for the last time in his life.
This interview might well terminate once and for all every thought of
earthly happiness, and fling him back upon the meagre solace of a
wilderness, which now, without Joan, would be desolation indeed.
Yet he knew that the chances must be faced now and at once. For
himself he would probably have delayed, rather basking in the sunshine
of uncertainty than risk witnessing the swift gathering clouds which
must rob him of all light forever. But he was not thinking only of
himself. There was that other, that white-haired, lonely man who had
said, "Because you love this little Joan."
The wonderful unselfishness of the Padre had a greater power to stir
Buck's heart than any other appeal. His sacrifice must not be
permitted without a struggle. He knew the man, and he knew how useless
mere objection would be. Therefore his duty lay plain before him. Joan
must decide, and on her decision must his plans all be founded. He had
no reason to hope for a return of his love. On the contrary, it seemed
absurd even to hope, and in such an event then the Padre's sacrifice
would be unnecessary. If on the other hand--but he dared not let the
thought take shape. All he knew was that with Joan at his side no
power of law should touch one single white hair of the Padre's head,
while the breath of life remained in his body.
It was a big thought in the midst of the most selfish of human
passions. It was a thought so wide, that, in every aspect, it spoke of
the great world which had been this man's lifelong study. It told of
sublime lessons well learned. Of a mind and heart as big, and broad,
and loyal as was the book from which the lessons had been studied.
With the morning light came a further steadiness of decision. But with
it also came an added apprehension, and lack of mental peace. The
world was radiant about him with the wonder of his love, but his
horizon was lost in a mist of uncertainty and even dread.
The morning dragged as such intervening hours ever drag, but at length
they were done with, and the momentous time arrived. Neither he nor
the Padre had referred again to their talk. That was their way. Nor
did any question pass between them until Caesar stood saddled before
the door.
The Padre was leaning against the door casing with his pipe in his
mouth. His steady eyes were gravely thoughtful.
"Where you making this afternoon?" he inquired, as Buck swung into the
saddle.
Buck nodded in the direction of Joan's home.
"The farm."
The Padre's eyes smiled kindly.
"Good luck," he said. And Buck nodded his thanks as he rode away.
But Buck's outward calm was studied. For once in his life his
confidence had utterly failed him. He rode over the trail in a dazed
condition which left him almost hopeless by the time he reached the
familiar corrals of the girl's home. As a consequence he reduced
Caesar's pace to a walk with something almost childlike in his desire
to postpone what he now felt must be his farewell to the wonderful
dream that had been his.
But even at a walk the journey must come to an end. In his case it
came all too soon for his peace of mind, and, to his added disquiet,
he found himself at the door of the old barn. Just for one moment he
hesitated. Then he lightly dropped to the ground. The next moment the
horse itself had taken the initiative. With none of its master's
scruples it clattered into the barn, and, walking straight into its
old familiar stall, commenced to search in the corners of the manger
for the sweet-scented hay usually awaiting it.
The lead was irresistible to the man. He followed the creature in,
removed its bridle and loosened the cinchas of the saddle. Then he
went out in search of hay.
His quest occupied several minutes. But finally he returned with an
ample armful and filled up the manger. Then came upon him a further
avalanche of doubt, and he stood beside his horse, stupidly smoothing
the beautiful creature's warm, velvet neck while it nuzzled its
fodder.
"Why--is that you, Buck?"
The exclamation startled the man out of his reverie and set his pulses
hammering madly. He turned to behold Joan framed in the doorway. For a
moment he stared stupidly at her, his dark eyes almost fearful. Then
his answer came quietly, distinctly, and without a tremor to betray
the feelings which really stirred him.
"It surely is," he said. Then he added, "I didn't know I was coming
along when you were up at the fort yesterday."
But Joan was thinking only how glad she was of his coming. His
explanation did not matter in the least. She had been home from the
camp something over an hour, and had seen some one ride up to the barn
without recognizing Buck or the familiar Caesar. So she had hastened to
investigate. Something of her gladness at sight of him was in the
manner of her greeting now, and Buck's despondency began to fall from
him as he realized her unfeigned pleasure.
"I'm so glad you came," Joan went on impulsively. "So glad, so glad.
I've been in camp to order things for--for my aunt's coming. You know
your Padre told me to send for her. I mailed the letter this morning."
"You--sent for your aunt?"
In a moment the whole hideous position of the Padre came upon him,
smothering all his own personal feelings, all his pleasure, all his
doubts and fears.
"Why--yes." Joan's eyes opened wide in alarm. "Have I done wrong? He
said, send for her."
Buck shook his head and moved out of the stall.
"You sure done dead right. The Padre said it."
"Then what was the meaning in your--what you said?"
Buck smiled.
"Nothing--just nothing."
Joan eyed him a moment in some doubt. Then she passed the matter over,
and again the pleasure at his coming shone forth.
"Oh, Buck," she cried, "there are some mean people in the world. I've
been talking to that horror, Beasley. He is a horror, isn't he? He's
been telling me something of the talk of the camp. He's been telling
me how--how popular I am," she finished up with a mirthless laugh.
"Popular? I--I don't get you."
Buck's whole expression had changed at the mention of Beasley's name.
Joan had no reason to inquire his opinion of the storekeeper.
"You wouldn't," she hastened on. "You could never understand such
wicked meanness as that man is capable of. I'm sure he hates me, and
only told me these--these things to make me miserable. And I was
feeling so happy, too, after seeing your Padre," she added
regretfully.
"An' what are the things he's been sayin'?"
Buck's jaws were set.
"Oh, I can't tell you what he said, except--except that the men think
I'm responsible for the death of those two. The other things were too
awful. It seems I'm--I'm the talk of the camp in--in an awful way. He
says they hate me. But I believe it's simply him. You see, he's tried
to--to ingratiate himself with me--oh, it's some time back, and
I--well, I never could stand him, after that time when the boys gave
me the gold. I wish they had never given me that gold. He still
persists it's unlucky, and I--I'm beginning to think so, too."
"Did he--insult you?" Buck asked sharply, ignoring the rest.
Joan looked quickly into the man's hot eyes, and in that moment
realized the necessity for prudence. The fierce spirit was shining
there. That only partly tamed spirit, which made her so glad when she
thought of it.
"Oh, no," she said. "It wasn't that he insulted me. No--no. Don't
think that. Only he went out of his way to tell me these things, to
make me miserable. I was angry then, but I've got over it now. It--it
doesn't matter. You see I just told you because--because----"
"If that man insulted you, I'd--kill him!"
Buck had drawn nearer to her. His tall figure was leaning forward, and
his eyes, so fiercely alight, burned down into hers in a manner that
half frightened her, yet carried with it a feeling that thrilled her
heart with an almost painful delight. There was something so magnetic
in this man's outburst, something so sweeping to her responsive
nature. It was almost as though he had taken her in his two strong
hands and made her yield obedience to his dominating will. It gave her
a strange and wonderful confidence. It made her feel as if this power
of his must possess the same convincing strength for the rest of the
world. That he must sway all who came into contact with him. Her
gladness at his visit increased. It was good to feel that he was near
at hand.
But her woman's mind sought to restrain him.
"Please--please don't talk like that," she said, in a tone that
carried no real conviction. "No, Beasley would not dare insult me--for
himself."
The girl drew back to the oat-box, and seated herself. Buck's moment
of passion had brought a deep flush to his cheeks, and his dark eyes
moved restlessly.
"Why did you tell me?"
There was no escaping the swift directness of this man's mind. His
question came with little less force than had been his threat against
Beasley. He was still lashed by his thought of the wretched
saloon-keeper.
But Joan had no answer ready. Why had she told him? She knew. She knew
in a vague sort of way. She had told him because she had been sure of
his sympathy. She had told him because she knew his strength, and to
lean on that always helped her. Without questioning herself, or her
feelings, she had come to rely upon him in all things.
But his sharp interrogation had given her pause. She repeated his
question to herself, and somehow found herself avoiding his gaze.
Somehow she could give him no answer.
Buck chafed for a moment in desperate silence. He turned his hot eyes
toward the door, and stared out at the distant hills. Caesar rattled
his collar chain, and scattered the hay in his search for the choicest
morsels. The heavy draft horses were slumbering where they stood.
Presently the man's eyes came back to the girl, devouring the beauty
of her still averted face.
"Say," he went on presently, "you never felt so that your head would
burst, so that the only thing worth while doin' would be to kill some
one?" He smiled. "That's how I feel, when I know Beasley's been
talkin' to you."
Joan turned to him with a responsive smile. She was glad he was
talking again. A strange discomfort, a nervousness not altogether
unpleasant had somehow taken hold of her, and the sound of his voice
relieved her.
She shook her head.
"No," she said frankly. "I--don't think I ever feel that way. But I
don't like Beasley."
Buck's heat had passed. He laughed.
"That was sure a fool question to ask," he said. "Say, it 'ud be like
askin' a dove to get busy with a gun."
"I've heard doves are by no means the gentle creatures popular belief
would have them."
"Guess ther's doves--an' doves," Buck said enigmatically. "I can't
jest see you bustin' to hurt a fly."
"Not even Beasley?"
Joan laughed slily.
But Buck ignored the challenge. He stirred restlessly. He thrust his
fingers into the side pockets of the waist-coat he wore hanging open.
He withdrew them, and shifted his feet. Then, with a sudden, impatient
movement, he thrust his slouch hat back from his forehead.
"Guess I can't say these things right," he gulped out with a swift,
impulsive rush. "What I want to say is that's how I feel when anything
happens amiss your way. I want to say it don't matter if it's Beasley,
or--or jest things that can't be helped. I want to get around and set
'em right for you----"
Joan's eyes were startled. A sudden pallor had replaced the smile on
her lips, and drained the rich, warm color from her cheeks.
"You've always done those things for me, Buck," she interrupted him
hastily. "You've been the kindest--the best----"
"Don't say those things," Buck broke in with a hardly restrained
passion. "It hurts to hear 'em. Kindest? Best? Say, when a man feels
same as me, words like them hurt, hurt right in through here," he
tapped his chest with an awkward gesture. "They drive a man nigh
crazy. A man don't want to hear them from the woman he loves. Yes,
loves!"
The man's dark eyes were burning, and as the girl rose from her seat
he reached out one brown hand to detain her. But his gesture was
needless. She made no move to go. She stood before him, her proud
young face now flushing, now pale with emotion, her wonderful eyes
veiled lest he should read in their depths feelings that she was
struggling to conceal. Her rounded bosom rose and fell with the
furious beatings of a heart she could not still.
"No, no," the man rushed on, "you got to hear me, if it makes you hate
me fer the rest of your life. I'm nothing but jest a plain feller
who's lived all his life in this back country. I've got no education,
nothin' but jest what I am--here. An' I love you, I love you like
nothing else in all the world. Say," he went on, the first hot rush of
his words checking, "I bin gropin' around these hills learning all
that's bin set there for me to learn. I tried to learn my lessons
right. I done my best. But this one thing they couldn't teach me.
Something which I guess most every feller's got to learn some time.
An' you've taught me that.
"Say." The restraint lost its power, and the man's great passion swept
him on in a swift torrent. "I never knew a gal since I was raised. I
never knew how she could git right hold of your heart, an' make the
rest of the world seem nothing. I never knew how jest one woman could
set the sun shining when her blue eyes smiled, and the storm of
thunder crowding over, when those eyes were full of tears. I never
dreamed how she could get around in fancy, and walk by your side
smilin' and talkin' to you when you wandered over these lonesome hills
at your work. I never knew how she could come along an' raise you up
when you're down, an' most everything looks black. I've learned these
things now. I've learned 'em because you taught me."
He laughed with a sort of defiance at what he felt must sound
ridiculous in her ears. "You asked me to teach you! Me teach you! Say,
it's you taught me--everything. It's you taught me life ain't just a
day's work an' a night's sleep. It's you taught me that life's a
wonderful, wonderful dream of joy an' delight. It's you taught me the
sun's shining just for _me_ alone, an' every breath of these mountains
is just to make _me_ feel good. It's you taught me to feel there's
nothing on God's earth I couldn't and wouldn't do to make you happy.
You, who taught me to Live! You, with your wonderful blue eyes, an'
your beautiful, beautiful face. You, with your mind as white an' pure
as the mountain snow, an' your heart as precious as the gold our folks
are forever chasin'. I love you, Joan. I love you, every moment I
live. I love you so my two hands ain't enough by a hundred to get
helping you. I love you better than all the world. You're jest--jest
my whole life!"
He stood with his arms outstretched toward the shrinking girl. His
whole body was shaking with the passion that had sent his words
pouring in a tide of unthought, unconsidered appeal. He had no
understanding of whither his words had carried him. All he knew was
that he loved this girl with his whole soul and body. That she could
love him in return was something unbelievable, yet he must tell her.
He must tell her all that was in his simple heart.
He waited. It seemed ages, but in reality it was only moments.
Presently Joan looked up. She raised her eyes timidly, and in a moment
Buck saw that they were filled with unshed tears. He started forward,
but she shrank back farther. But it was not with repugnance. Her
movement was almost reluctant, yet it was decided. It was sufficient
for the man, and slowly, hopelessly he dropped his arms to his sides
as the girl's voice so full of distress at last broke the silence.
"Oh, Buck, Buck, why--oh, why have you said these things to me? You
don't know what you have done. Oh, it was cruel of you."
"Cruel?" Buck started. The color faded from his cheeks. "Me cruel--to
you?"
"Yes, yes. Don't you understand? Can't you see? Now--now there is
nothing left but--disaster. Oh, to think that I should have brought
this upon you--you of all men!"
Buck's eyes suddenly lit. Unversed as he was in all such matters, he
was not blind to the feeling underlying her words. But the light
swiftly died from his eyes as he beheld the great tears roll slowly
down the girl's fair cheeks, and her face droop forward into her
hands.
In a moment all restraint was banished in the uprising of his great
love. Without a thought of consequences he bridged the intervening
space at one step, and, in an instant, his arms were about the slim,
yielding figure he so tenderly loved. In a moment his voice, low,
tender, yet wonderful in its consoling strength, was encouraging her.
"Disaster?" he said. "Disaster because I love you? Where? How? Say,
there's no disaster in my love for you. There can't be. All I ask, all
I need is jest to make your path--easier. Your troubles ain't yours
any longer. They sure ain't. They're mine, now, if you'll jest hand
'em to me. Disaster? No, no, little gal. Don't you to cry. Don't. Your
eyes weren't made for cryin'. They're jest given you to be a man's
hope. For you to see just how much love he's got for you."
Joan submitted to his embrace for just so long as he was speaking.
Then she looked up with terrified eyes and released herself.
"No, no, Buck. I must not listen. I dare not. It is my fate. My
terrible fate. You don't understand. Beasley was right. I _was_
responsible for Ike's death. For Pete's death. But not in the way he
meant. It is my curse. They loved me, and--disaster followed
instantly. Can't you see? Can't you see? Oh, my dear, can't you see
that this same disaster must dog you--now?"
Buck stared. Then he gathered himself together.
"Your fate?"
"Yes, yes. I am cursed. Oh," Joan suddenly gave a shrill laugh that
was painful to hear. "Every man that has ever told me--what you have
told me--has met with disaster, and--death."
For one second no sound broke the stillness of the barn but the
restless movements of Caesar. Then, suddenly, a laugh, a clear, buoyant
laugh, full of defiance, full of incredulity, rang through the
building.
It was Buck. He moved forward, and in a moment the girl was lying
close upon his breast.
"Is that the reason you mustn't, daren't, listen to me?" he cried, in
a voice thrilling with hope and confidence. "Is that the only reason?
Jest because of death an' disaster to me? Jest that, an'--nothing
more? Tell me, little gal. Tell me or--or I'll go mad."
"Yes, yes. But oh, you don't----"
"Yes, I do. Say, Joan, my little, little gal. Tell me. Tell me right
now. You ain't--hatin' me for--for loving you so bad. Tell me."
Joan hid her face, and the tall man had to bend low to catch her
words.
"I couldn't hate you, Buck. I--I----"
But Buck heard no more. He almost forcibly lifted the beautiful,
tearful face to his, as he bent and smothered it with kisses.
After a few moments he stood her away from him, holding her slight
shoulders, one in each hand. His dark eyes were glowing with a wild
happiness, a wonderful, reckless fire, as he peered into her blushing
face.
"You love me, little gal? You love me? Was ther' ever such a thought
in the mind of sane man? You love me? The great big God's been mighty
good to me. Disaster? Death? Let all the powers of man or devil come
along, an' I'll drive 'em back to the hell they belong to."