The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

“Cos he’s goin’ to pay a ‘party’ call on that Golden Woman,” cried Beasley, appearing to have made a sudden discovery. “I got it, now. That’s why he was in sech a hurry. That’s why he needed a good dose o’ rye. Say, that feller means marryin’ that gal. I’ve heard tell he’s got it all fixed with her. I’ve heard tell she’s dead sweet on him. Wal, I ain’t sure but wot it’s natural. He’s a good looker; so is she. An’ he’s a bright boy. Guess he’s got the grit to look after a gal good. He’s a pretty scrapper. Another drink?”

Pete refilled his glass. His fury was at bursting-point, and Beasley reveled in the devil now looking out of his angry eyes.

“He’s gone across ther’ now?” he demanded, after swallowing his second drink. His question was ominously quiet.

Beasley saw the man’s hands finger the guns at his waist. It was a movement the sight of which gave him a wonderful satisfaction.

“Seems like it,” he said. “Though course I can’t rightly say. I see him ride off down the trail that way – ”

“Here, I’ll take another drink. I’m goin’ after – ”

“Say, you ain’t goin’ to butt in with two folks courtin’?” cried Beasley, blandly innocent.

But Pete had no reply. He drained his third drink and, flinging the glass down, bolted out of the bar; while Beasley turned with a malicious chuckle, and scrupulously entered up three drinks against the man’s name on the slate.

“I’d give somethin’ to see it,” he muttered. Then he rubbed out the entry he had made. “Guess I’ll make it six drinks. He’s too rattled to remember.”

Ten minutes later a number of men were lounging in the saloon, and Beasley, in the leisure of administering to their wants, was relating to them the story of the afternoon’s events. At the conclusion he added his own comment, which was not without definite purpose.

“Say, if they ain’t jest like two dogs worritin’ a bone you got me plumb beat,” he said. Then he added with an air of outraged virtue: “I’d like to say right here she’s jest playin’ them fellers for their wads. Oh, she’s a keen one, her eyes is right on to business. She’ll sure have ’em shootin’ each other right up. Seems to me a gal like that ain’t no right in this yer city. She’s a scandal to the place. An’ a danger. Wot we fellers needs to figure on is the liberty an’ safety of our citizens, an’ anything calc’lated to be a danger to that needs to git seen to.”

Some of the men concurred half-heartedly. They were men who had come into the camp with the rush, and were anxious to keep in with the saloon-keeper. Still, even they were very little stirred by his appeal. They cared not the least bit in the world who was shot up, or who did the shooting, so long as they were not personally concerned beyond the rôle of spectators.

So for once his mischief fell flat. It was too early in the day to make the impression he needed. They were not sufficiently primed with rye. So Beasley contented himself with insinuating the bottle toward doubtful customers, and easing his disappointment by making all the trade he could.

But presently a diversion occurred by the advent of Buck. He rode up, his great horse loaded down with the carcasses of three splendid deer. He had brought them in for sale. Game was a precious thing in this camp, where a diet of simple beef ruled.

The moment he displayed his wares there was a rush to bid for them, and Beasley, much to his chagrin, found himself forced to pay boom prices before he could secure them for retailing. He paid ungraciously enough. If there was one man more than another in the camp he begrudged anything to it was Buck. Besides, it made him utterly furious to think that he never came up against this man on any debatable matter but what he managed to come off worst.

However, his policy forced him to stifle his resentment, and he paid, mentally adding another item to the long list of his personal animosities to be wiped out at some future date.

But Buck’s presence was an opportunity for mischief not to be altogether missed. Nor was Beasley the man to let the moment pass without availing himself of it. Buck’s interest in Joan was something to be played upon at all times. Therefore he drew him aside in a manner as portentous and ingratiating as he could make it.

Buck, wondering at his drift, submitted all unwillingly.

“Say,” Beasley began, the moment they were out of ear-shot of the rest, “guess you ain’t bin around the farm lately – I mean this afternoon?”

Buck looked him coldly in the eye.

“No – why?”

Beasley returned his look in consummate irritation. He pretended to be annoyed at his coolness. He shrugged and turned away, speaking over his shoulder as he went.

“Oh, nuthin’! Guess it might be as well if you had.”

He went back to his bar, and in a moment was busy again at his trade. Buck looked after him for one doubting second. Then he too turned away and went out to his horse.

CHAPTER XX

THE ABILITIES OF MRS. RANSFORD

Joan was smiling happily, watching the waging of a droll little farmyard warfare. Just now her life was running very smoothly, and the shadows of memory were steadily receding. She had almost forgotten the few unpleasant moments when she had first beheld the repellent ugliness of Devil’s Hill nearly a week ago. Since then nothing had occurred to raise fresh alarm, and memory, with that pleasant knack inspired of perfect physical health, had gently mellowed and lost something of its power to disturb.

It was a curious scene. The farm was still, so still, in the glowing afternoon heat. The cattle were out in the pastures filling themselves with the succulent grass and dozing the long daylight hours away. The “hired” man was out with the team, breaking a new patch of prairie land in the interim between the haying and harvesting. The hogs were gently snuffling in their pens, and a few hens and cockerels were amiably flirting whilst scratching about amongst the barn litter in that busy, inconsequent manner so suggestive to the human mind of effort for the sheer delight of being busy.

It was a scene such as she had often dreamed of, and something which very nearly approached her ideal.

Here, in one corner of the yard, where she stood, sun-bonneted to shelter her face from the burning attentions of the summer sun, leaning idly against a water barrel standing at the corner of the barn, she watched the farmyard comedy which was rapidly threatening to disturb the general peace. A large hen with a late-hatched brood of chicks, whose colors suggested the polygamous conditions under which her matrimonial affairs were carried on, with feathers ruffled and comb flaming, with head lowered and beak agape, was angrily defying an absurd-looking pig which had scarcely passed its sucking age.

They had met quite suddenly round the corner of the implement shed. For the moment they stood disconcerted, while the agitated hen clucked alarm at her offspring. The pig, squealing in a high treble, was standing with snout twitching and front feet apart, a picture of idiotic confusion. Perhaps the hen, with the superior feminine knowledge of her age, understood something of the situation, and appreciated the young porker’s inability. Anyway, she took the initiative in aggression, and, vainly struggling to cover her rather riotous brood with outspread wings, cackled furiously and prepared for the onslaught which secretly she knew was not forthcoming.

The porker’s mind seemed to be in a whirl of doubt, for he looked vainly from side to side to find some adequate means of escape. His sense did not carry him sufficiently far to prompt him to turn tail and bolt for safety. He just stood there and continued his helpless baby squealing. This was all the old hen needed to drive her to extremities. Realizing his weakness she gave one fluttering spring, scattering her chicks in all directions, pecked the pig’s nose violently, turned something like a somersault as she landed on the ground, gathered herself together, and incontinently fled, leaving her brood to care for themselves. Thus the pig was left looking after her with an expression in its silly eyes that suggested to the girl nothing so much as an amazed wonder as to what the fuss was all about.

Joan stood convulsed with laughter. The pig interested her vastly more than the hen, and she waited the further working of its stupid mind. But she was disappointed. Its momentary confusion had passed, and, lowering its pink snout, it groveled on in search of offal, the delights of which its young mind was just awakening to.

She had moved away to pass on toward the house when she was startled by the sound of a harsh laugh close behind her. She turned and found herself staring into the grinning face of Montana Ike.

She was angry and not without a qualm of apprehension. This man had become a constant caller at the farm at all sorts of odd and unexpected moments. And his attitude was such that she thoroughly resented him. In his vaunting, braggadocio manner he had assumed a sort of proprietary interest in her and her affairs.

The moment she faced him, his confident attitude became more pronounced.

“Comic, ain’t it?” he suggested. Then he added, as though to assure her of his appreciation: “Nigh as comic as a cirkis.”

But all Joan’s delight in the scene was gone. Her beautiful eyes were sparkling angrily. She made up her mind then and there to be rude to the man. She would not have him about the place.

“What do you want?” she inquired bluntly.

The boy’s grin remained, but his furtive eyes opened a shade wider.

“Wot do I want? Gee! You’re feelin’ friendly.” Then he put on a manner he intended to be facetious. “An’ me left my patch o’ pay-dirt, an’ all, to pay a ‘party’ call. Say, Miss Golden, that ain’t sassiety ways in this yer camp.”

His attempt at pleasantry went for nothing. Joan, studying the man closely, saw that his face was flushed, and, even at that distance, she could smell the drink he had been imbibing. She must get rid of him, but it was not so easy to her gentle nature. However, she took a firm stand.

“Maybe not,” she said coldly. “But when people make ‘party’ calls they generally do it at convenient times. I’m very busy.”

The man laughed in the harsh manner she disliked and rather feared.

“Kind o’ seemed busy when I got around. Y’ see you was sure that busy you didn’t hear my hoss comin’ along, you never see me git off him an’ leave him back ther’, an’ me come along over an’ stand watchin’ you doin’ nuthin’ fer nigh fi’ minutes. Oh, you’re sure busy!”

Joan flushed. She knew she had lied, but to be told so by this man was infuriating. She made no attempt to further disguise her feelings.

“I said I was busy,” she cried deliberately. “Surely that should be sufficient.”

But the man had no intention of accepting his dismissal.

“It jest depends wot a feller’s come around for,” he said, no whit disconcerted. “Mebbe you won’t find you’re busy when you heard what I got to say.” He laughed immoderately. Beasley’s whisky was at work, and he had no fear for the purpose in hand.

Suddenly he dived a hand into his hip-pocket and drew out the bills the saloon-keeper had paid him.

“Look at them,” he cried in a voice that was high-pitched with elation. “Ther’s dollars an’ dollars ther’, but ’tain’t nuthin’ to wot’s to come. Say, I got another cache o’ gold waitin’ back ther’ at my shack, but I ain’t handin’ it to Beasley,” he went on cunningly. “Oh, no, not me! I’m a business guy, I am. I hold that up, an’ all the rest I git from my patch, an’ I’m goin’ to cash it in Leeson Butte, at the bank, fer a proper exchange. See? Oh, I ain’t no sucker, I ain’t. An’ a feller needs a heap o’ dollars, treatin’ his gal right.”

Joan hardly knew how to deal with such a situation. Besides, the now obvious condition of the man alarmed her. However, he gave her no opportunity to reply. For, delighted with his own talk, he went on promptly —

“Now I tho’t a whole heap since I got this wad. A wad like this takes you thinkin’, that is, ef you ain’t a low-down rattle-brain like Pete, or a psalm-smitin’ son-of-a-moose like that feller, Buck. Course they ain’t got no sort o’ savvee, anyways, so they don’t count nuthin’. But wi’ a feller like me things is diff’rent. Now, this is what I got fixed. Y’ see you can’t have no sort of a time in this yer camp, but it’s diff’rent in Leeson Butte. Guess we’ll get a buggy from the camp an’ drive into Leeson. Ther’s dance halls ther’, an’ they run a decent faro joint at a place I know. An’ they sell elegant rye, too. Wal, we’ll git that buggy, an’ git fixed up reg’lar in Leeson, an’ have a bully time, an’ git right back to here an’ run this yer farm between us. How’s that?”

“I – I don’t think I understand.”

Joan’s alarm grew. This man was deliberately proposing to marry her. Supported by the nerve his half-drunken condition inspired, his senses were so inflamed that he took the whole matter for granted. She looked into his sensual young face, the hard eyes, and at the loose lips that surrounded his unclean teeth, and something like panic seized her. However, she knew she must not show her fear.

But he was waiting. And in reality her reply came without any hesitation. She shook her head.

“You’ve made a mistake,” she said decidedly but gently. “I have no intention of marrying anybody.” Then, taking her courage in both hands, she permitted something of her dislike and contempt to creep into her manner. “It seems to me you take a great deal too much for granted. You come here when you think you will, wholly uninvited, and, from the first, you hint broadly that you regard me as – as the person you intend to marry. That is presumption, to put it mildly, and I have no use for people who – presume.”

She moved as though to return to the house. But Ike, all his confidence suddenly merged into a volcanic heat, reached out a hand to detain her. His hand came into rough contact with the soft flesh of her shoulder, and, shaking it off, she faced him with flaming eyes.

“Don’t dare to do that again,” she cried, with bosom heaving. “Go, leave this farm instantly. Remember you are trespassing here!”

Her anger had outweighed all her alarm, even, perhaps, all discretion. For the man was in no mood to accept his dismissal easily.

“So that’s it, is it?” he cried with a sudden hoarseness. “Oho, my lady! We’re putting on airs,” he sneered. “Not good enough, eh? Presuming, am I? An’ who in blazes are you that you can’t be touched? Seems to me a decent honest citizen’s jest as good fer you as fer any other gal, an’ my dollars are clean. What in thunder’s amiss?” Then his heat lessened, and his manner became more ingratiating. “See here, Golden,” he went on persuasively, “you don’t mean that, sure! Wot’s the matter with me? I ain’t weak-kneed, nor nuthin’. I ain’t scared o’ no man. I’d scrap the devil ef you ast me. An’ say, just think wot we ken do with the dollars. You’d make a real upstander in a swell house, with folks waitin’ around on you, an’ di’monds an’ things. Say, I’m jest bustin’ to make good like that. You can’t jest think how much gold ther’ is in my patch – an’ you brought it along with you. You give it to me – your luck.”

There was something almost pathetic in his pleading, and for a brief moment a shade of sympathy softened the girl.

“Please don’t persist, Ike,” she said almost gently. “Still, I can never marry you. It’s – it’s – absurd,” she added, with a touch of impatience she could not wholly keep back.

But that touch of impatience suddenly set fire again to the man’s underlying intolerance of being thwarted.

“Absurd, is it?” He laughed with a curious viciousness which once more disturbed the girl. “Absurd fer you to marry me,” he cried harshly. “Absurd fer you, cos I ain’t got no smarmy eddication, cos I ain’t dressed in swaller tails an’ kids, same as city folks. Oh, I know! You’re a leddy – a city-raised leddy, an’ I – I’m jest a prairie hog. That’s it. You ain’t got no use fer me. You jest come along right here an’ laff, an’ laff at us folks. Oh, you needn’t to say you hav’n’t!” as she raised a protesting hand. “Think I’m blind, think I’m deaf. Me! Say, you shown it right along jest so plain ther’ wer’n’t no need to tell it in langwidge.” He broke off for a moment as though his anger had robbed him of further speech, and Joan watched the growing purpose in his hot eyes. Her own face was the color of marble. She was inwardly trembling, but she stood her ground with eyes stonily cold. She made no attempt to speak now, or defend herself against his accusations. She knew it would be useless. Only she longed in her mind for the presence of Buck to protect her from the insult she felt to be coming. Nor was she mistaken.

The man’s pause gave way before the surge of his anger.

“See here,” he suddenly cried, as though he had just arrived at a decision. “I ain’t an easy man to laff at, as the folks around here knows. Ther’ ain’t no man around here can laff at Montana Ike, an’ I don’t guess no gal wi’ red ha’r’s goin’ to neither. See?” He glanced swiftly round the farm. There was no one in sight. Suddenly one great hand shot out and he seized the girl by the arm in a crushing, powerful grasp and dragged her to him.

“You guess you ken laff at me,” he cried, seizing her with both hands and holding her in spite of her struggles. “Wal, you ken laff after you kissed me. You ken laff, oh, yes! when I tell the folks you kissed me. Seems to me the laff’ll mostly be with me.”

He drew her toward him while she struggled violently. Then she shrieked for help, but she knew the only help she could hope for was the wholly inadequate help of her housekeeper. She shrieked Mrs. Ransford’s name with all her power, while the man’s face came nearer. It was quite hopeless; she knew she could not defend herself. And the half-drunken man was laughing as though he enjoyed her terror.

She felt his hot breath on her cheeks, she closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his grinning face. He released his hold with one hand and flung his arm about her waist. She fought with might and main, shrieking with all the power of her lungs. She suddenly felt the impress of his hot lips on her cheek, not once, but a dozen times. Then of a sudden he released her with a bitter oath, as the shrieking voice of Mrs. Ransford sounded close by, and the thwack of a heavy broom fell upon his head and shoulders.

“I’ll teach you, you miser’ble hoboe!” cried the old woman’s strident voice as her powerful arms swung her lusty broom aloft. “I’ll teach you, you scallawag!” Thwack fell the broom, and, releasing Joan, the man sought to protect his head with his arms. “I’ll give you a dose you won’t fergit, you scum o’ creation!” Thwack went the broom again. “Wait till the folks hear tell o’ this, you miser’ble, miser’ble cur!” Again the broom fell, and the man turned to flee. “You’d run, would you? Git a fork, Miss Joan!” With a surprising rush the fat creature lunged another smash at the man’s head with her favorite weapon.

The blow fell short, for Ike had made good his retreat. And curiously enough he made no attempt to disarm her, or otherwise stand his ground once he was beyond the range of her blows. Perhaps he realized the immensity of his outrage, perhaps he foresaw what might be the result to himself when the story of his assault reached the camp. Perhaps it was simply that he had a wholesome terror of this undoubted virago. Anyway, he bolted for his horse and vaulted into the saddle, galloping away as though pursued by something far more hurtful than a fat farm-wife’s avalanche of vituperation.

“Mussy on us!” cried the old woman, flinging her broom to the ground as the man passed out of sight. “Mussy me, wot’s he done to you, my pretty?” she cried, rushing to the girl’s side and catching her to her great bosom. “There, there, don’t ’e cry, don’t ’e to cry for a scallawag like that,” she said, as the girl buried her face on her shoulder and sobbed as though her heart would break. “There, there,” she went on, patting the girl’s shoulder, “don’t ’e demean yerself weppin’ over a miser’ble skunk like that. Kiss yer, did he? Kiss yer! Him! Wal, he won’t kiss nobody no more when the folks is put wise. An’ I’ll see they gets it all. You, a ’Merican gal, kissed by a hog like that. Here, wipe yer cheeks wi’ this overall; guess they’ll sure fester if you don’t. Ther’, that’s better,” she went on as Joan, choking back her sobs, presently released herself from her bear-like embrace.

“It’s my own fault,” the girl said tearfully. “I ought never to have spoken to him at all. I – ”

But Mrs. Ransford gave her no chance to finish what she had to say.

“Wot did I tell you?” she cried, with a power of self-righteousness. “Wot did I tell you? You ain’t got no right to git a hob-a-nobbin’ with sech scum. They’re all scallawags, every one of ’em. Men! – say, these yer hills is the muck-hole o’ creation, an’ the men is the muck. I orter know. Didn’t I marry George D. Ransford, an’ didn’t I raise twins by him, as you might say, an’ didn’t I learn thereby, an’ therewith, as the sayin’ is, that wi’ muck around there’s jest one way o’ cleanin’ it up an’ that’s with a broom! Come right into the house, pretty. You’re needin’ hot milk to soothe your nerves, my pore, pore! Come right in. Guess I’m a match fer any male muck around these hills. Mussy on us, what’s that!”

Both women started and stood staring with anxious, terrified eyes down the trail which led to the camp. Two shots had been fired almost simultaneously, and now, as they waited in horrified silence, two more shots rang out, echoing against the hills in the still air with ominous threat. After that all was quiet again.

Presently the strained look in the farm-wife’s face relaxed, and she turned to her charge.

“That’s him,” she cried, with a swift return to her angry, contemptuous manner. “It’s him showin’ off – like all them scallawags. Come right in, missie,” she added, holding out her hands to lead the girl home.

But her kindly intention received an unexpected shock. Joan brushed her roughly aside, and her look was almost of one suddenly demented.

“No, no,” she cried in a voice of hysterical passion. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand. Those shots – oh! It is my fate – my curse. I must go!”

And she fled down the trail in the direction whence the sound had proceeded – fled, leaving Mrs. Ransford staring stupidly after her, a prey to utter bewilderment.

CHAPTER XXI

THE MEETING ON THE TRAIL

The quiet was profound. All the world seemed so still. There was no sign of life, yet the warm air was thrilling with the unseen life of an insect world. The heat haze rose from the soft, deep surface sand of the trail, and the grass-lined edges looked parched beneath the glare of the summer sun. There was no breath from the mountains down here, where the forest trees crowded in on either side, forming a great screen against the cooling breezes, and holding the heat like the sides of an oven.

A startled bird fluttered amongst the branches of a tree with that restless movement which so surely indicates the alarm of some subtle sense which no other creature possesses in so keen a degree. An answering rustle came from near by. And in a moment this was followed by a bustling rush among the leaves as two winged mates fled farther into the forest. Yet the sudden flight seemed quite unnecessary.

Again the stillness was broken. This time it was by the harsh voice of a black carrion. This too was followed by movement, only the movement had no haste or suggestion of fear. It was simply the heavy flapping of slow-moving wings. Two enormous crows launched themselves upon the air from the topmost branches of a distant tree, and perched on the crest of another at the trail-side.

They sat there in solemn, unmoving silence, but with eyes alert and watchful, and who might tell the thought passing through their unwholesome minds!

But now a further sound broke the stillness – a sound which perhaps accounted for the movements of the birds. A soft patter grew out of the distance like the pad of muffled feet. But it was faint and seemingly far off. The sharp eyes of the feathered watchers were scanning the horizon from their lofty perches. The sound grew. And as it grew the waiting carrion turned to view both distances of the trail. It was evident that the growing sound had a double source.

The padding feet became more distinct. Yes, the sounds were sharper. The softness had gone, developing into the rhythmic beat of hard hoofs speeding from either direction. Two horses were galloping down the trail at a rapid pace, and quickly it became evident that their meeting must occur somewhere almost directly beneath the watchful eyes of the waiting birds.