THE MOVING FINGER
The Padre stood at the top of the steps and looked out over the wide
stretching valley below him. His long day was drawing to a close, but
he felt no weariness of body. There was a weariness of mind, a
weariness of outlook. There was something gray and cold and hopeless
upon his horizon, something which left him regretful of all that which
lay within his view now.
There was a half smile in his eyes, as, for a moment, they rested on
the narrow indistinct trail which looked so far below him. He was
thinking of that apparition he had met only a few days back, the
apparition which had suddenly leapt out of his past. It was all very
strange, very wonderful, the working of those mysterious things which
make it certain that no page in a human creature's life can be turned
once and for all.
Yes, it was all very wonderful. The hand of Fate had begun to move
against him when he had greeted that starving fragment of humanity at
the trail-side, more than twenty years ago. It had moved steadily
since then in every detail of his life. It had been progressing in the
work he had done in the building of his farm. Its moving finger had
pointed every day of Buck's young life. In the necessities of those
poor gold-seekers it had shown its unerring direction, even in the
spirit which had prompted him to help them, which involved the
selling of his farm.
Then he saw its bitter irony. It had done its work by bringing Joan
into contact with Buck, and, with cruel derision, had shown him how
unnecessary his sacrifice had been. Then had come all those other
things, moving so swiftly that it was almost impossible to count each
step in the iron progress of the moving finger. It had come with an
overwhelming rush which swept him upon its tide like a feather upon
the bosom of the torrent. And now, caught in the whirling rapids below
the mighty falls, he could only await the completion of the sentence
so long since pronounced.
The smile broadened, spreading gently across his face. He realized he
was admitting all he had denied to Joan. But the thought brought him
no weakening. The wisdom of years had taught him much that must not be
communicated to a younger generation. Life would teach them in their
turn; they must not learn the truths which lay before them before
their time. It was better to lie than to destroy the hope of youth.
His conscience was clear, his resolve perfect in its steadiness. The
happiness of two people was at stake. For Buck he would give up all.
There was no sacrifice too great. For Joan--she was the fair daughter
of his oldest friend. His duty was clear by her. There was one course,
and one course only that he could see for himself. To remove the last
shadow from these young lives he must face the ordeal which lay before
him. What its outcome might be he could not quite see, but he was not
without hope. There were certain details surrounding the death of his
friend which did not fit in with his guilt. He had no weapon upon him
in that house. Nor was there the least reason for the crime. He knew
he would be confronted by the evidence of a woman who hated him, a
woman capable of manufacturing evidence to suit her own ends. But,
whatever else she might do, she could not produce a weapon belonging
to him, nor could she invent a reason for the crime that could not be
disproved. At least this was the hope he clung to.
However, he knew that he could not leave the shadow of his possible
guilt to cloud the lives of these two, just setting out on their long
journey together. The possibilities of it for harm were far too great.
The ocean of hot, youthful love was far too possible of disaster for
an unnecessary threat to overshadow it.
No, he had refused the request of these two from the first moment when
he had realized his duty by them, and now, after careful thought, his
resolve remained unshaken.
Still, he was not without regret as he gazed out over that vast world
he had learned to love so well. The thought of possibly never seeing
it again hurt him. The wide valleys, the fair, green pastures, the
frowning, mysterious woods with their utter silence, the butting crags
with their barren crests, or snow-clad shoulders. They held him in a
thrall of almost passionate devotion. They would indeed be hard to
part with.
He looked away down the gaping jaws of the valley at the black crest
of Devil's Hill. It was a point that never failed to attract him, and
now more so than ever. Was it not round this hill that all his past
efforts had been concentrated?
He studied it. Its weirdness held him. A heavy mist enveloped its
crown, that steaming mist which ever hung above the suspended lake.
It was denser now than usual. It had been growing denser for the last
two days, and, in a vague way, he supposed that those internal fires
which heated the water were glowing fiercer than usual. He glanced up
at the sky, and almost for the first time realized the arduous efforts
of the westering sun to penetrate the densely humid atmosphere. It was
stiflingly hot, when usually the air possessed a distinct chill.
But these things possessed only a passing interest. The vagaries of
the mountain atmosphere rarely concerned him. His vigorous body was
quite impervious to its changes. He picked up his "catch" of pelts and
shouldered them. They were few enough, and as he thought of the
unusual scarcity of foxes the last few days he could not help feeling
that the circumstance was only in keeping with the rest of the passing
events of his life.
He made his way along the foot-path which wound its way through the
pine bluff, in the midst of which the old fur fort lay hidden inside
its mouldering stockade. He flung the pelts into the storeroom, and
passed on to the house, wondering if Buck had returned from the camp,
whither he knew he had been that day.
He found him busy amidst a pile of stores spread out upon the floor
and table, and a mild surprise greeted the youngster as he looked
round from his occupation.
"You never said--you were getting stores, Buck?"
The Padre eyed the pile curiously. Finally his eyes paused at the
obvious ammunition cases.
Buck followed the direction of his gaze.
"No," he said; and turned again to his work of bestowing the goods in
the places he had selected for them.
The Padre crossed the room and sat down. Then he leisurely began to
exchange his moccasins for a pair of comfortable house-shoes.
"Had we run short?" he asked presently.
"No."
Buck's manner was touched with something like brusqueness.
"Then--why?"
Buck straightened up, bearing in his arms an ammunition box.
"Because we may need 'em," he said, and bestowed the box under the
settle with a kick.
"I don't get you--that's revolver ammunition you just put away."
"Yes."
Buck continued his work until the room was cleared. The other watched
him interestedly. Then as the younger man began to prepare their
supper the Padre again reverted to it.
"Maybe you'll tell me about 'em--now?" he said, with his easy smile.
Buck had just set the kettle on the stove. He stood up, and a frown of
perplexity darkened his brow.
"Maybe I won't be able to get to camp again," he said. "Maybe we'll
need 'em for another reason."
"What other?"
"The sheriff's comin'. That woman's sent for him. I've figgered out he
can't get along till 'bout to-morrow night, or the next mornin'.
Anyway it don't do to reckon close on how quick a sheriff can git
doin'."
The Padre's smile had died out of his eyes. He sighed.
"The sheriff's coming, eh?" Then he went on after a pause. "But these
stores--I don't see----"
A dark flame suddenly lit Buck's eyes, but though he broke in quickly
it was without the heat that was evidently stirring within him.
"They're for Joan, an' me--an' you. When the time comes guess we're
going where no sheriff can follow us, if you don't make trouble. I
don't guess you need tellin' of the valley below us. You know it, an'
you know the steps. You know the canyon away on toward Devil's Hill.
That's the way we're goin'--when the time comes. An' I'd say there
ain't no sheriff or dep'ties'll care to follow us through that canyon.
After that we cut away north. Ther's nobody can follow our trail that
way."
Something almost of defiance grew into his voice as he proceeded. He
was expecting denial, and was ready to resist it with all his force.
The Padre shook his head.
"Buck, Buck, this is madness--rank madness," he cried. "To resist the
law in the way your hot head dictates is to outlaw yourselves beyond
all redemption. You don't understand what you are doing. You don't
know to what you are condemning this little Joan. You don't know how
surely your methods will condemn _me_."
But Buck was on fire with rebellion against the injustice of a
law which claimed the Padre as its victim. He saw the hideous
possibilities following upon his friend's arrest, and was determined
to give his life in the service of his defense.
"It's not madness," he declared vehemently. "It's justice, real
justice that we should defend our freedom. If you wer' guilty, Padre,
it would be dead right to save yourself. It's sure the right of
everything to save its life. If you're innocent you sure got still
more right. Padre, I tell you they mean to fix you. That woman's got
a cinch she ain't lettin' go. She's lived for this time, Joan's told
me. She'll raise plumb hell to send you to your death. Padre, just
listen to us. It's me an' Joan talkin' now. What I say she says. We
can see these things different to you; we're young. You say it's your
duty to give up to this woman. We say it's our duty you _shan't_. If
you give up to her you're giving up to devil's mischief, an' that's
dead wrong. An' nothin' you can say can show me you got a right to
help devil's work. We'll light out of here before they come. Us three.
If you stop here, we stop too, an' that's why I got the ammunition.
More than that. Ther's others, too, won't see you taken. Ther's
fellers with us in the camp--fellers who owe you a heap--like I do."
The Padre watched the steam rising from the kettle with moody eyes.
The youngster was tempting him sorely. He knew Buck's determination,
his blind loyalty. He felt that herein lay his own real danger. Yes,
to bolt again, as he had done that time before, would be an easy way
out. But its selfishness was too obvious. He could not do it. To do so
would be to drag them in his train of disaster, to blight their lives
and leave them under the grinding shadow of the law.
No, it could not be.
"Looked at from the way you look at it, there is right enough in what
you say, boy," he said kindly. "But you can't look at civilized life
as these mountains teach you to look at things. When the sheriff comes
I yield to arrest, and I trust in God to help us all. My mind is made
up."
For some moments Buck stared down at the sturdy friend who had taken
the place of his dead father. His eyes softened, and their fire died
out. But there was no rescinding of his desperate decision. He was
thinking of what it would mean, the thought of this white-haired man
in the hands of the executioner. He was thinking of the kindly heart
beating within that stalwart bosom. He was thinking of the wonderful,
thoughtful kindness for others which was always the motive of his
life. And a deep-throated curse rose to his lips. But it found no
utterance. It could not in that presence.
"An' my mind's made up," he jerked out at last, with concentrated
force. Then he added with an abrupt softening, "Let's eat, Padre. I
was forgettin'. Mebbe you're hungry some."