THE TEMPEST BREAKS
Buck moved out of Caesar's stall. He had just finished lightly securing
the double cinchas of his saddle. The bulging saddle-bags had been
made fast behind the cantle and the wallets strapped upon the horn.
Now the great animal was hungrily devouring an added feed of oats
which his master had poured into its manger.
The man glanced over the equipments, and moved to the other end of the
stable, where stood the Padre's heavily built chestnut. It, too, was
ready saddled as though for a journey. Here again the saddle-bags and
wallets had been filled and adjusted. Here again the creature was
devouring an extra feed.
Buck heaved a sigh of satisfaction and turned away to where the
lantern was hanging on a nail in the wooden wall. Close beside this a
belt, loaded down with revolver ammunition, and carrying two holsters
from which the butts of a pair of heavy revolvers protruded, was
suspended from another nail. This he took down and strapped about his
waist.
His work for the night was done, and all his preparations made. The
night itself must direct the further course of action for him. As far
as he could see he had prepared for every possible development, but,
as he admitted to himself, he could only see from his own point of
view. He was at work against two opposing forces. There was the law
and Bob Richards on the one hand, and, on the other, the Padre, with a
determination equal to his own. Of the two, he felt that the
redoubtable Bob, backed by the law, would be far the easier to deal
with.
This night, he anticipated, was to be the last he spent in that old
fort. He more than anticipated it; he felt certain. He had heard early
in the day of the return of Joan's Aunt Mercy, and this was an
all-sufficient reason for his belief. Since that moment he had
completed every preparation which before he had only tentatively
considered; and such matters had been attended to entirely independent
of his friend.
This had to be. It was useless to inform him of anything, worse than
useless, until the last moment, when he intended that his schemes
should be executed to the last detail. After much painful thought he
had finally decided upon coercion to gain his ends. No mere bluff, but
a straightforward, honest declaration of his intentions. It was very
hurtful that he must do this thing. But he could not help it. He had
resolved on saving his friend from himself, and no considerations of
personal feelings or, in fact, anybody's feelings, should be allowed
to stand in his way. He regarded his duty as a man, and not as a
law-abiding citizen. He had no real understanding of the law. His was
the only law that guided him, and his law demanded of him, rightly or
wrongly, the defense from all harm of those whom he loved.
His manhood dictated this, and he had no thought of personal danger,
or toward what painful destiny it might carry him. The future belonged
to the future, life and death were things of no more account than
waking to daylight, or the profound slumbers of night. Those who
would injure him or his friend must be dealt with in the only way he
understood. To outwit them was his first thought, but he must defeat
their ends if it cost him his life.
This was the man who had learned from the book of Life, as it is
written in the earth's rough places. He was not naturally desperate,
but, as with the creatures of the forests, which had taught him so
many lessons, when brought to bay in defense of their own, so he was
ready to bare his teeth--and use them.
He reached for the lantern with the thought of extinguishing it. But
he changed his mind. There was no window that the light might become a
beacon. He would close the door and leave it burning.
He turned to pass out, but remained where he was. The Padre was
standing in the doorway, and his steady eyes were upon the saddled
horses.
Buck had no word of greeting to offer. His dark eyes were intently
fixed upon the other's face. In a moment his friend turned to him.
"It's just on nine, Buck," he said, in his kindest fashion. "We
haven't eaten yet--it's ready."
It was Buck's turn to glance over at the horses so busily eating their
oats. A curious smile lit his eyes. He knew well enough that the other
had more than fathomed the meaning of those preparations. He was glad
he had made no attempt to conceal them. That sort of thing was never
his way. He had nothing to conceal from his friend.
"I had a few chores to git fixed," he said easily, indicating the
horses. "They'll sure need a good feed before daylight, I guess."
The Padre pointed at his belt and revolvers.
"And you're sleeping in--them."
"Guess I'm not sleepin'--to-night."
"No--I suppose not."
The Padre looked into the strong young face with a speculative glance.
Buck returned his look with a sudden eagerness.
"You heard?" he asked sharply.
"I've heard--Mercy is back."
Buck watched him turn away to continue his survey of the horses.
"So have you--I s'pose," the older man went on a moment later,
indicating the horses.
"Yep. Guess they'll need to do a long journey soon. Mebbe--to-night."
"Caesar?" said the Padre.
"Both," returned Buck, with an emphasis, the meaning of which could
not well be missed.
The Padre's eyes were smiling. He glanced round the tumbled-down old
barn. They had contrived to house their horses very comfortably, and
Buck kept them wonderfully cared for. These things appealed to him in
a way that made him regret many things.
"Who's riding--my plug?" the Padre asked deliberately.
Buck shrugged.
"Why ask?" he said doggedly. "Who generally does? I don't seem to
guess we need beat around," he went on impatiently. "That ain't bin
our way, Padre. Guess those hosses are ready for us. They'll be ready
night an' day--till the time comes. Then--wal, we're both goin' to use
'em."
The younger man's impatience had no disturbing effect upon the other.
But his smile deepened to a great look of affection.
"Still chewin' that bone?" he said. Then he shook his head. "What's
the use? We're just men, you and I; we got our own way of seeing
things. Twenty years ago maybe I'd have seen things your way. Twenty
years hence no doubt you'll see things mine----"
"Jest so," Buck broke in, his eyes lighting, and a strong note
suddenly adding force to his interruption. "But I'm not waitin' twenty
years so's to see things diff'rent."
"That's what I should have said--twenty years ago."
Buck's face suddenly flushed, and his dark brows drew together as he
listened to the calm words of his friend. In a moment his answer was
pouring from his lips in a hot tide which swept his hearer along and
made him rejoice at the bond which existed between them. Nor, in those
moments, could he help feeling glad for that day when he had found the
hungry wayfarer at the trail-side.
"Ther's more than twenty years between us, sure," Buck cried with
intense feeling. "Nuthin' can alter that, an' ther's sure nuthin' can
make us see out o' the same eyes, nor feel with the same feelin's.
Ther's nuthin' can make things seem the same to us. I know that, an'
it ain't no use you tellin' me. Guess we're made diff'rent that
way--an' I allow it's as well. If we weren't, wal, I guess neither of
us would have things right. See here, Padre, you give most everything
to me you could, ever since you brought me along to the farm. That's
because it's your way to give. I hadn't nuthin' to give. I haven't
nuthin' to give now. I can't even give way. Guess you can, though,
because it's your nature, and because I'm askin' it. Padre, I'm goin'
to act mean. I'm goin' to act so mean it'll hurt you. But it won't
hurt you more than it'll hurt me. Mebbe it won't jest hurt you so
much. But I'm goin' to act that way--because it's my way--when I'm set
up agin it. You're settin' me up agin it now."
He paused, vainly watching the other's steady eyes for a sign.
"Go on." The Padre's smile was undiminished.
Buck made an impatient movement, and pointed at the horses.
"See them? Ther' they stand," he cried. "Ther' they'll sure stand till
we both set out for the long trail. I got it all fixed. I got more
than that fixed. See these guns?" He tapped one of the guns at his
waist. "They're loaded plumb up. The belt's full of shots. I got two
repeatin' rifles stowed away, an' their magazines are loaded plumb up,
too. Wal--unless you say right here you're goin' to hit the trail with
me, when--things get busy; unless you tell me right out you're goin'
to let me square off jest a bit of the score you got chalked up agin
me all these years by lettin' me help you out in this racket, then I'm
goin' to set right out ther' by the old stockade, and when Bob
Richards gets around, he an' as many of his dogone dep'ties as I can
pull down are goin' to get their med'cine. They'll need to take me
with you, Padre. Guess I'm sharin' that 'chair' with you, if they
don't hand it me before I get ther'. What I'm sayin' goes, every word
of it. This thing goes, jest as sure as I'll blow Bob Richards to hell
before he lays hand on you."
The younger man's eyes shone with a passionate determination. There
was no mistaking it. His was a fanatical loyalty that was almost
staggering.
The Padre drew a sharp breath. He had not studied this youngster for
all those years without understanding something of the recklessness he
was capable of. Buck's lips were tightly compressed, his thin nostrils
dilating with the intense feeling stirring him. His cheeks were pale,
and his dark eyes flashed their burning light in the dim glow of the
lantern. He stood with hands gripping, and the muscles of his bare
arms writhed beneath the skin with the force with which they clenched.
He was strung to an emotion such as the Padre had never before seen in
him, and it left the older man wavering.
He glanced away.
"Aren't we worrying this thing on the crossways?" he said, endeavoring
to disguise his real feelings.
But Buck would have none of it. He was in no mood for evasion. In no
mood for anything but the straightest of straight talk.
"Ther's no crosswise to me," he cried bluntly, with a heat that might
almost have been taken for anger. Then, in a moment, his manner
changed. His tone softened, and the drawn brows smoothed. "Say, you
bin better'n a father to me. You sure have. Can I stand around an' see
you passed over to a low-down sort o' law that condemns innocent
folks? No, Padre, not--not even for Joan's sake. I jest love that
little Joan, Padre. I love her so desprit bad I'd do most anything for
her sake. You reckon this thing needs doin' for her." He shook his
head. "It don't. An' if it did, an' she jest wanted it done--which she
don't--I'd butt in to stop it. Say, I love her that way I want to fix
her the happiest gal in this country--in the world. But if seein' you
go to the law without raisin' a hand to stop it was to make her
happy, guess her chances that way 'ud be so small you couldn't never
find 'em. If my life figures in her happiness, an' I'm savin' that
life while you take your chance of penitentiary an'--the 'chair,' wal,
I guess she'll go miserable fer jest as many years as she goes on
livin'."
The Padre turned away. It was impossible for him to longer face those
earnest young eyes pleading to be allowed to give their life for his
liberty. The reckless prodigality of the youngster's heart filled him
with an emotion that would not be denied. He moved over to where Caesar
stood, and smoothed the great creature's silky quarters with a shaking
hand. Buck's storming he could have withstood, but not--this.
The other followed his every movement, as a beggar watches for the
glance of sympathy. And as the moments passed, and the Padre remained
silent, his voice, keyed sharply, further urged him.
"Wal?"
But the other was thinking, thinking rapidly of all those things which
his conscience, and long years of weary hiding prompted. He was trying
to adapt his focus anew. His duty had seemed so plain to him. Then,
too, his inclination had been at work. His intention had not seemed a
great sacrifice to him. He was weary of it all--these years of
avoiding his fellows. These years during which his mind had been
thrown back upon the thought of whither all his youthful, headlong
follies and--cowardice had driven him. Strong man as he was, something
of his strength had been undermined by the weary draining of those
years. He no longer had that desire to escape, which, in youth, had
urged him. He was almost anxious to face his accusers. And with that
thought he knew that he was getting old. Yes, he was getting old--and
Buck--Buck was almost his son. He could not see the boy's young life
thrown away for him, a life so full of promise, so full of quiet
happiness. He knew that that would happen if he persisted. He knew
that every word of Buck's promise would be carried out to the letter.
That was his way. There was no alternative left now but for him to
give way. So he turned back and held out his hand.
"What you say--goes," he said huskily. "I--I hope what we're doing is
right."
Buck caught the strong hand in his, and the other winced under his
grip.
"Right?" he cried, his eyes shining with a great happiness. "Right?
You'll save that old woman the worst crime on earth. You're savin' the
law from a crime which it's no right to commit. You're handin' little
Joan a happiness you can't even guess at in keepin' your liberty--an'
me, wal, you're handin' me back my life. Say, I ain't goin' to thank
you, Padre. I don't guess I know how. That ain't our way." He laughed
happily. "Guess the score you got agin me is still mountin' right up.
I don't never seem to git it squared. Wal, we'll let it go. Maybe it's
almost a pity Bob Richards won't never have the chance of thanking you
for--savin' his life, too."
The delight in his manner, his shining joy were almost sufficient
recompense to the Padre. He had given way to this youngster as he
always gave way. It had been so from the first. Yes, it was always so,
and--he was glad.
Buck turned toward the door, and, as he did so, his arm affectionately
linked into that of his friend.
"We'll need that supper, Padre," he said, more soberly. "There's a
long night, and it ain't easy to guess what may happen before
daylight. Come right along."
They passed the doorway, but proceeded no farther. Buck held up his
hand, and they stood listening.
"Wait! Hark!" he cried, and both turned their eyes toward the westward
hills.
As they stood, a low, faint growl of thunder murmured down the distant
hillsides, and died away in the long-drawn sigh of a rising wind. The
wind swept on, and the rustling trees and suddenly creaking branches
of the forest answered that sharp, keen breath.
"It's coming--from the northwest," said the Padre, as though the
direction were significant.
"Yes." Buck nodded with understanding. "That's wher' the other come
from."
They stood for some moments waiting for a further sign. But nothing
came. The night was pitch black. There was no break anywhere in the
sky. The lamplight in the house stared out sharp and clear, but the
house itself, as with the barns and other outbuildings, the stockade,
even the line of the tree tops where they met the sky, was quite lost
in the inky night.
"It'll come quick," said the Padre.
"Sure."
They moved on to the house, and in a few minutes were sitting down to
one of those silent meals which was so much a part of their habit. Yet
each man was alert. Each man was thinking of those things which they
knew to be threatening. Each man was ready for what might be
forthcoming. Be it tempest or disaster, be it battle or death, each
was ready to play his part, each was ready to accept the verdict as it
might be given.
Buck was the first to push back from the table. He rose from his seat
and lit his pipe. Then, as the pungent fumes lolled heavily on the
superheated air, he passed over to the open window and took his seat
upon the sill.
The Padre was more leisurely. He remained in his seat and raked out
the bowl of his pipe with the care of a keen smoker. Then he cut his
tobacco carefully from his plug, and rolled it thoughtfully in the
palms of his hands.
"Say, about little Joan," he said abruptly. "Will she join us on----?"
His question remained unfinished. At that instant Buck sprang from his
seat and leant out of the window. The Padre was at his side in an
instant.
"What----?"
"Holy Mackinaw! Look!" cried Buck, in an awed tone.
He was pointing with one arm outstretched in a direction where the
ruined stockade had fallen, leaving a great gaping space. The opening
was sharply silhouetted against a wide glow of red and yellow light,
which, as they watched, seemed to grow brighter with each passing
moment.
Each man was striving to grasp the full significance of what he
beheld. It was fire. It needed no second thought to convince them of
that. But where--what? It was away across the valley, beyond the
further lip which rose in a long, low slope. It was to the left of
Devil's Hill, but very little. For that, too, was dimly silhouetted,
even at that distance.
The Padre was the first to speak.
"It's big. But it's not the camp," he said. "Maybe it's the--forest."
For a moment Buck made no answer. But a growing look of alarm was in
his straining eyes.
"It's not a prairie fire," the Padre went on. "There's not enough
grass that way. Say, d'you think----" A sudden fear had leapt into his
eyes, too, and his question remained unfinished.
Buck stirred. He took a deep breach. The alarm in his eyes had
suddenly possessed his whole being. Something seemed to be clutching
his heart, so that he was almost stifled.
"It's none o' them things," he said, striving to keep his voice
steady. Then of a sudden he reached out, and clutched the arm of his
friend, so that his powerful fingers sank deep into its flesh.
"It's the--farm!" he cried, in a tone that rang with a terrible dread.
"Come on! The hosses!" And he dashed from the room before the last
sound of his voice had died out.
The Padre was hard on his heels. With danger abroad he was no laggard.
Joan--poor little Joan! And there were miles to be covered before her
lover could reach her.
But the dark shadows of disaster were crowding fast. Evil was abroad
searching every corner of the mountain world for its prey. Almost in a
moment the whole scene was changed, and the dull inertia of past days
was swept aside amidst a hurricane of storm and demoniacal tempest.
A crash of appalling thunder greeted the ears of the speeding men. The
earth seemed to shake to its very foundations. Ear-splitting
detonations echoed from crag to crag, and down deep into the valleys
and canyons, setting the world alive with a sudden chaos. Peal after
peal roared over the hills, and the lightning played, hissing and
shrieking upon ironstone crowns, like a blinding display of
pyrotechnics.
There was no pause in the sudden storm. There was no mercy for
wretched human nerves. The blinding light was one endless chain,
sweeping across the heavens as though bent on forever wresting from
its path the black shadows that defied it.
And amidst all this turmoil, amidst all the devastating roar, which
shook the earth as though bent on wrecking the very mountains
themselves, amidst all the blinding, hellish light, so fierce, so
intense, that the last secrets of the remotest forest depths must be
yielded up, two horsemen dashed down the trail from the fur fort as
fast as sharp spurs could drive their eager beasts.