The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

“Whatever happens to-night, aunt,” she cried, her big eyes glowing in a growing excitement, her red-gold hair shining like burnished copper in the light from the lamp which was so near to it, “I hope God may forgive you this terrible wicked spirit which is driving you. Some day I may find it in my heart to forgive you. That which I have to do you are driving me to, and I pray God I may succeed.”

As the last word left her lips she seized the lamp from the table, and, with all her strength, hurled it through the open window. As it sped it extinguished itself and crashed to the ground outside, leaving the room in utter darkness. At the same instant she sprang to the sill of the open window, and flung herself from the room. As she, too, fell to the ground a shot rang out behind her, and she felt the bullet tear through her masses of coiled hair.

But her excitement was at fever heat. She waited for nothing. Her lover’s life was claiming every nerve in her body. His life, and that other’s. She scrambled to her feet and dodged clear of the window, just as a chorus of harsh execration reached her ears. She looked toward the barns and hay corrals whence the sound came, and, on the instant, a hideous terror seized upon her. The barn was afire! The hay had just been fired! And, in the inky blackness of the night, the ruddy glow leapt suddenly and lit up the figures of a crowd of men, now shouting and blaspheming at the result of the shot from the house.

For one moment Joan stood still, trembling in every limb, heedless of the vengeful creature behind her. She was overwhelmed by the now utter and complete hopelessness of her case. Her horses were in the barn which had been fired. And they were her only means of reaching her lover.

Then in a moment, as she beheld the shouting crowd coming toward the house, voicing their intent to burn that, along with its occupants, her mind went back to those still within. The wretched woman, whose death by burning might save the Padre, and her rough but faithful housekeeper. Regardless of all consequences to herself, now regardless even of the lives of those two men she had hoped to save, she ran back to the house.

Flight alone could save the women inside from this drunken crowd. Flight – and at once. For, resentful at the shot which had felled one of their comrades, the lawless minds of these creatures saw but one course to pursue. Well enough Joan knew their doctrine of a life for a life. She must go back. She must save those two from this ravening horde.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE TEMPEST BREAKS

Buck moved out of Cæsar’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.”

“Cæsar?” 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 Cæsar 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.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE EYES OF THE HILLS

The thunder roared without intermission. It rose and fell, that was all. From a truculent piano it leapt to a titanic crescendo only to find relief again in a fierce growling dissatisfaction. It seemed less of an elemental war than a physical attack upon a shuddering earth. The electric fires rifting the darkness of this out-world night were beyond compare in their terror. The radiance of sunlight might well have been less than the blaze of a rush candle before the staggering brilliancy. It was wild, wild and fearsome. It was vicious and utterly terrifying.

Below the quaking earth was in little better case. Only was the scene here in closer touch with human understanding. Here the terror was of earth, here disaster was of human making. Here the rack of heart was in destruction by wanton fire. Shrieking, hissing, crackling, only insignificant by comparison with the war of the greater elements, flames licked up and devoured with ravening appetites the tinder-like structures of Joan’s farm.

The girl was standing in the open. A confined enough open space almost completely surrounded by fire. Before her were the blazing farm buildings, behind her was the raging furnace that once had been her home. And on one side of her the flames commingled so as to be impassable. Her head was bowed and her eyes were closed, her hands were pressed tight over her ears in a vain attempt to shut out cognizance of the terror that reigned about and above her. She stood thus despairing. She was afraid, terribly afraid.

Beside her was her aunt, that strange creature whose brain had always risen superior to the sufferings of the human body. Now she was crushed to earth in mute submission to the powers which overwhelmed her. She lay huddled upon the ground utterly lost to all consciousness. Terror had mercifully saved her from a contemplation of those things which had inspired it.

These two were alone. The other woman had gone, fled at the first coming of that dreaded fiend – fire. And those others, those wretched, besotted creatures whose mischief had brought about this wanton destruction, they too had fled. But their flight was in answer to the wrathful voice of the heavens which they feared and dreaded above all things in the wild world to which they belonged.

Alone, helpless, almost nerveless, Joan waited that end which she felt could not long be delayed. She did not know, she could not understand. On every hand was a threat so terrible that in her weakness she believed that life could not long last. The din in the heavens, the torturing heat so fierce and painful. The glare of light which penetrated even her closed eyelids, the choking gasps of smoke-laden, scorching air with which she struggled. Death itself must come, nor could it be far from her now.