The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

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 Cæsar 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.”

CHAPTER XIX

A STUDY IN MISCHIEF

Nearly three months had passed and all Beasley Melford’s affairs were amply prospering. His new saloon was the joy of his heart. It had been completed more than a week, which week had been something in the nature of a triumph of financial success. The camp was booming as he had never dared to hope it would boom. Traders were opening up business all round him, and the output of gold was increasing every day. But, with all this rapid development, with all the wrangling and competition going on about him, he was the centre of the commercial interests of Yellow Creek, and his saloon was the centre of all its traffic.

But he was quite alive to the fact that he must maintain his position and custom by keeping well in line, even just a little ahead of all competition. He knew that to rest on his oars would be to court swift disaster. It must be his constant thought to make his place more and more attractive, to listen to the voice of public requirements, and seize every opportunity of catering for them.

His saloon was no better than a gambling-hell and drinking-booth, the dry goods side of his enterprise being almost insignificant. For he knew that the more surely his customers could indulge in such pastimes in comparative comfort the more surely he would keep them. So he made these things the basis of his trade. But there were other needs to be provided for. Therefore, on the completion of his new saloon, and the moment his vanity had been satisfied by the erection of a great board top, set up on the pitch of the roof, announcing in blatant lettering that it was “Melford’s Hotel,” he set to work to erect a dance hall and a livery barn. He foresaw the necessity of running a stage, and he never lost sight of the fact that a great number of the women of the class he wished to see about were invading the place. Then, too, the dance hall could be used as a boarding establishment for those who had no homes of their own.

It was a precious thought, and, after a journey to Leeson Butte to consult his partner, these matters were put in hand. He no longer worked single-handed. His establishment was increased by the advent of a bartender, a Chinese cook, and a livery stable keeper. These, and some casual labor from among the loafers, supplied him with all the help he so far found necessary.

The bar and the gambling-tables were always his own care. These were the things he would never trust to other hands. The bartender was his helper only, who was never allowed to escape the observation of his lynx eyes.

Yes, Beasley Melford was flourishing as he intended to flourish, and his satisfaction was enormous. In the mornings he was always busy supervising the work, in the afternoons he gave himself what leisure his restless spirit demanded. But in the evenings he gathered his harvest by rascally methods of flagrant extortion.

It was during the latter part of his afternoon leisure that he was suddenly disturbed by the appearance of Montana Ike in his bar. He was stretched full length upon his counter, comfortably reviewing a perfect maze of mental calculations upon the many schemes which he had in hand, when the youngster pushed the swing door open and blustered in.

Beasley was sitting up in an instant. He hated this sort of sudden disturbance. He hated men who rushed at him. He could never be certain of their intentions. When he saw who his visitor was there was very little friendliness in his greeting.

“Wot in hell you want rushin’ that way?” he demanded arrogantly. “Guess your thirst ain’t on a time limit.”

But the ginger-headed youth ignored his ill-temper. He was too full of his own affairs. He simply grinned.

“Fish out them durned scales o’ yours,” he cried gleefully. “Fish ’em out, an’ set your big weights on ’em. Ther’ ain’t goin’ to be no chat nor drink till you weighed in. Then I guess the drink’ll be right up to you.”

Beasley’s mood changed like lightning. He swung over behind his bar and dropped to the floor on the other side, his eyes alight, and every faculty alert for trade.

“Wot’s it?” he demanded. “Struck it big?” he went on as the dingy gold scales were produced from the shelf at the back. Then he laughed amiably. “It needs to be big, wakin’ me in my slack time.”

“Oh, it’s big enuff,” cried Ike confidently, his eager, young, animal face alight with pleasure.

He watched the other with impatient eyes as he deliberately picked out the weights. But Beasley was too slow, and, with an impatient exclamation, he snatched up the biggest of them and set it on the somewhat delicate scales with a heavy hand.

“Say, you’re rapid as a sick funeral,” he cried. “I ain’t got no time to waste. What I got here’ll need that – an’ more. Ther’!”

Beasley’s temper was never easy, and his narrow eyes began to sparkle.

“You’re mighty fresh,” he cried. “Guess I’m – ”

But his remark remained unfinished. With a boisterous laugh the boy flung a small canvas bag on the counter and emptied its contents before the other’s astonished eyes.

“Ther’,” he cried gleefully. “I want dollars an’ dollars from you. An’ you’ll sure see they ain’t duds.”

Beasley’s eyes opened wide. In a moment he had forgotten his ill-humor.

From the gold spread out before him he looked up into the other’s face with a half-suspicious, wholly incredulous stare.

“You got that from your claim – to-day?” he asked.

“An’ wher’ in hell else?”

“Sure!” Beasley fingered the precious nuggets lovingly. “Gee! Ther’s nigh five hundred dollars there.”

“Fi’ hundred – an’ more,” cried Ike anxiously.

But Beasley’s astonishment was quickly hidden under his commercial instincts. He would have called them “commercial.”

“We’ll soon fix that,” he said, setting the scales.

Ike leant against the bar watching the man finger his precious ore as he placed each of the six nuggets in the scale and weighed them separately. He took the result down on paper and worked their separate values out at his own market prices. In five minutes the work was completed, and the man behind the bar looked up with a grin.

“I don’t gener’ly make a bad guess,” he said blandly. “But I reckoned ’em a bit high this journey. Ther’s four hundred an’ seventy-six dollars comin’ to you – ha’f cash an’ ha’f credit. Is it a deal?”

The other’s face flamed up. A volcanic heat set him almost shouting.

“To hell!” he cried fiercely. “Ther’s fi’ hundred dollars ther’ if ther’s a cent. An’ I want it all cash.”

Beasley shook his head. He had this boy’s exact measure, and knew just how to handle him.

“The scales don’t lie,” he said. “But ther’, it’s the way wi’ youse fellers. You see a chunk o’ gold an’ you don’t see the quartz stickin’ around it. Here, I’ll put a hundred an’ seventy-six credit an’ the rest cash. I can’t speak fairer.”

He drew a roll of bills from his hip-pocket and began counting the three hundred out. He knew the sight of them was the best argument he could use. It never failed. Nor did it do so now.

Ike grumbled and protested in the foulest language he was capable of, but he grabbed the dollars when they were handed to him, and stowed them into his hip-pocket with an eagerness which suggested that he feared the other might repent of his bargain. And Beasley quickly swept the precious nuggets away and securely locked them in his safe, with the certain knowledge that his profit on the deal was more than cent for cent.

“You’ll take rye,” he said as he returned his keys to his pocket. “An’ seein’ it’s your good day, an’ it’s on me, we’ll have it out o’ this thirteen-year-old bottle.”

He pushed the bottle across the counter and watched Ike pour himself out a full “four fingers.” The sight of his gluttony made Beasley feel glad that the thirteen-year-old bottle had been replenished that morning from the common “rot-gut” cask. After their drink he became expansive.

“That’s an elegant claim of yours, Ike,” he said, taking up his favorite position on the bar. “It’s chock full of alluvial. Don’t scarcely need washing. Guess I must ha’ paid you two thousand dollars an’ more since – since we got busy. Your luck was mighty busy when they cast the lots.”

“Luck? Guess I’m the luckiest hoboe in this layout,” Ike cried with a confidence that never seemed to require the support of rye whisky.

Beasley’s eyes sparkled maliciously.

“How about Pete?” he grinned. He knew that Ike had an utter detestation of Pete, and did not have to guess at the reason. “I paid him more than that by fi’ hundred. How’s that?”

“Tcha’! Pete ain’t no account anyways,” Ike retorted angrily. “Say, he pitches his dollars to glory at poker ’most every night. Pete ain’t got no sort o’ savee. You don’t see me bustin’ my wad that way.”

“How about the gals? Guess you hand ’em a tidy pile.”

“Gals!” Ike suddenly became thoughtful. His gaze wandered toward the window. Then he abruptly turned back to the bar and clamored for another drink. “We’ll have that thirteen-year-old,” he cried. “An’ guess I’ll have a double dose. Gals!” he went on, with a sneer, as the other watched him fill a brimming tumbler.

“Ther’s sure on’y one gal around here. That’s why I got around now. Guess I’m payin’ her a ‘party’ call right now, ’fore the folks get around. Say, I’m goin’ to marry that gal. She’s sure a golden woman. Golden! Gee, it sounds good!”

Beasley grinned. He was on a hot trail and he warmed to his work.

“Goin’ to ask her now?” he inquired amiably, eyeing the spirit the man had poured out.

Ike laughed self-consciously.

“Sure,” he said, draining his glass.

“What about Pete?”

Ike looked sharply into the other’s grinning face. Then he banged his glass angrily on the counter and moved toward the door.

“Pete ken go plumb to hell!” he cried furiously over his shoulder as he passed out.

Beasley dropped nimbly from his counter and looked after him through the window. He saw him vault into the saddle and race away down the trail in the direction of the farm.

His eyes were smiling wickedly.

“Don’t guess Pete’s chasin’ ther’ to suit you, Master Ike,” he muttered. “Marry that gal, eh? Not on your life. You pore silly guys! You’re beat before you start – beat a mile. Buck’s got you smashed to a pulp. Kind of wish I’d given you less cash and more credit. Hello!”

He swung round as the door was again thrust open. This time it was Blue Grass Pete who strode into the room.

“Wher’s Ike?” he demanded without preamble the moment he beheld the grinning face of the saloon-keeper.

“Gee!” Beasley’s grin suddenly broke out into a loud laugh. He brought his two hands down on the counter and gave himself up to the joy of the moment.

Pete watched him with growing unfriendliness.

“You’re rattled some,” he said at last, with elaborate sarcasm. Then, as Beasley stood up choking with laughter and rubbing his eyes, he went on: “Seems to me I asked you a civil question.”

Beasley nodded, and guffawed again.

“You sure did,” he said at last, stifling his mirth as he beheld the other’s threatening frown. “Well, I ain’t laffin’ at you. It’s – it’s jest at things.”

But Pete had no sense of humor. He disliked Beasley, and simply wanted his information now.

“Ike been along?” he demanded doggedly.

Beasley spluttered. Then he subsided into a malicious grin again.

“Sure,” he said. “He’s been in with a fat wad. Say, he’s a lucky swine. ’Most everything comes his way. Guess he can’t never touch bad. He’s ahead on the game, he’s a golden-haired pet with the gals, an’ he gits gold in – lumps.”

But Pete’s dark face and hungry eyes showed no appreciation, and Beasley knew that the man’s mood was an ugly one.

“Wher’s he now?”

“Can’t jest say. I didn’t ask him wher’ he was goin’. Y’ see I cashed his gold, and we had a drink. He seemed excited some. Guess he was sort of priming himself. Maybe he’s gone along to the gals. Have a drink?”

“No – yes, give us a horn of rye.”

The man behind the bar pushed the bottle across.

“What you needin’ him for?” he asked with apparent unconcern.

Pete snatched at his drink.

“That ain’t your affair,” he retorted surlily.

“Sure it ain’t. I jest asked – casual.”

Pete banged his empty glass on the counter.

“I’m needin’ him bad,” he cried, his eyes furiously alight. “I’m needin’ him cos I know the racket he’s on. See? He quit his claim early cos – cos – ”