The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country

There was no business to be done that day. Even Smallbones was forced to keep his doors shut, though not without audible protest. He asserted loudly that Congress should be asked to pass a law preventing marriages taking place in mercantile centres.

No one saw the bride and bridegroom that morning except Peter Blunt and Annie Gay. Annie was acting as Eve’s maid for the occasion. She positively refused to let the girl dress herself, and though she could not be her bridesmaid, had expressed her deliberate intention of being her strong support. She and Eve had worked together on the wedding dress, which was of simple white lawn. They had discussed together the trousseau, and made it. They had talked and talked together over the whole thing for two months, and she had handed Eve so much advice out of her store of connubial wisdom, that she was not going to give up her place now.

So it was arranged that Gay was to give Eve away, and Annie was to be ready at the girl’s elbow. That was how Annie put it. And no one but herself knew quite what she meant. However, it seemed to be perfectly satisfactory to Eve, and their preparations continued, a whirl of delight to them both.

Peter Blunt was Will’s best man. And he found himself left with nothing much to do but smile upon inquirers after the bridegroom on the eventful day. His other duties were wrested from him by anybody and everybody in the place, which was a matter of considerable relief, although he was willing enough. But there was one other duty which could not be snatched from him, and it was one that weighed seriously on his kindly mind. It was the care of the wedding-ring. That, and the fear lest he should not produce it at exactly the right moment, gave him much cause for anxiety. Mrs. Gay had done her duty by him. She had marked the place in the service which he must study. And he had studied earnestly. But as the hour of the wedding approached his nerves tried him, and between fingering the ring in his waistcoat pocket and repeating his “cues” over to himself, he reached a painful condition of mental confusion which bordered closely on a breakdown.

At half-past eleven the village was abustle with people emerging from their houses. It was Gay who sighed as he surveyed the throng. Not a soul but had a broad smile on his or her face. And what with that, and the liberal use of soap, such an atmosphere of health had been arrived at that he pictured in his mind the final winding up of his affairs as an undertaker.

Then came the saunter over to the Mission Room. Everybody sauntered; it was as if they desired to prolong the sensation. Besides, the women required to look about them–at other women–and the men followed in their wake, feeling that in all such affairs they acknowledged the feminine leadership. They felt that somehow they were there only on sufferance, a necessary evil to be pushed into the background, like any other domestic skeleton.

The Mission Room was packed, and the rustle of starched skirts, and the cleanly laundry atmosphere that pervaded the place was wonderfully wholesome. The gathering suggested nothing so much as simple human nature dipped well in the purifying soap-suds of sympathy, rubbed out on the washing board of religious emotion, and ironed and goffered to a proper sheen of wholesome curiosity. They were assembled there to witness the launching of a sister’s bark upon the matrimonial waters, and in each and every woman’s mind there were thoughts picturing themselves in a similar position. The married women reflected on past scenes, while the maids among them possibly contemplated the time when that ceremonial would be performed with them as the central interest.

The happiness was not all Eve’s, it was probably shared by the majority of the women present. She was the object that conjured their minds from the dull monotony of their daily routine to realms of happy fancy. And the picture was drawn in a setting of Romance, with Love well in the foreground, and the guardian angel of Perfect Happiness hovering over all. No doubt somewhere in the picture a man was skulking, but even in the light of matrimonial experience this was not sufficient to spoil the full enjoyment of those moments.

The bridegroom arrived. Yes, he was certainly good-looking in his new suit from “down East.” Dressed as he was he did not belong to Barnriff. He looked what he had been brought up, of an altogether different class to the folks gathered in the room.

One or two of the matrons shook their heads. They did not altogether approve of him. He was well enough known for a certain unsteadiness; then, too, there was a boyishness about his look, an irresponsibility which was not general among the hard features of the men they knew. Most of these thought that Eve was rather throwing herself away. They all believed that she would have done far better to have chosen Jim Thorpe.

Then came the bride, and necks craned and skirts rustled, and audible whisperings were in the air. Annie Gay, following behind, heard and saw, and a thrill of delight brought tears to her sympathetic eyes. She knew how pretty Eve was. Had she not dressed her? Had she not feasted her eyes on her all the morning? Had she not been a prey to a good honest feminine envy?

And Eve’s dress was almost as pretty as herself. There were just a few touches of a delicate pink on the white lawn to match her own warmth of coloring. Her gentle eyes were lowered modestly as she walked through the crowd, but if their pretty brown was hidden from the public gaze her wealth of rich, warm hair was not, and Eve’s hair was the delight and envy of every woman in Barnriff. Yes, they were all very, very pleased with her, particularly as she, being a dressmaker with all sorts of possibilities in the way of a wedding-dress within her reach, had elected to wear a dress which any one of them could have afforded, any one of them had possibly worn in her time.

The ceremony proceeded with due solemnity. The minister was all sympathetic unction, and was further a perfect model of dignified patience when Peter Blunt finally scrambled the ring into the bridegroom’s hand several lines later than was his “cue,” but in time to save himself from utter disgrace. And the end came emotionally, as was only to be expected in such a community. Kate Crombie, being leader of the village society, started it. She promptly laid her head on Jake Wilkes’ shoulder and sniveled. Nor was it until he turned his head and fumbled out awkward words of consolation to her, that the reek of stale rye warned her of her mistake, and she promptly came to and looked for her husband to finish it out on.

Annie Gay wept happy tears, and laughed and cried joyously. Jane Restless borrowed her man’s bandana and blew her nose like a steam siren, declaring that the heat always gave her catarrh. Carrie Horsley guessed she’d never seen so pretty a bride so elegantly dressed, and wept down the front of Eve’s spotless lawn the moment she got near enough. Mrs. Rust sniffed audibly, and hoped she would be happy, but warned her strongly against the tribulations of an ever-increasing family, and finally flopped heavily into a chair calling loudly for brandy.

It was, in Doc Crombie’s words, “the old hens who got emotions.” It was only the younger women, the spinsters, who laughed and flirted with the men, giggling hysterically at the sallies ever dear at a matrimonial function which flew from lip to lip. But then, as Pretty Wilkes told her particular crony Mrs. Rust later on at the sociable–

“It was the same with us, my dear,” she said feelingly. “Speaking personal, before I was married, I’d got the notion, foolish-like, that every man had kind o’ got loose out of heaven, an’ we women orter set up a gilded cage around ’em, an’ feed ’em cookies, an’ any other elegant fancy truck we could get our idiot hands on. They was a sort of idol to be bowed an’ scraped to. They was the rulers of our destiny, the lords of the earth. But now I’m of the opinion that the best man among ’em couldn’t run a low down hog ranch without disgracin’ hisself.”

It was not till after the ceremony was over, and before the “sociable,” which was to precede the bride and bridegroom’s departure for Will’s shack up in the hills, where she was to spend a fortnight’s honeymoon before returning to Barnriff to take up again the work of her dressmaking business, that Peter Blunt had time to think of other things. He was not required in the ordering of the “sociable.” The women would look to that.

Before he left the Mission Room, to return to his hut to see that his preparations were complete for Elia to take up his abode with him for the next fortnight–he had finally obtained Eve’s consent to this arrangement–he scanned the faces of the assembled crowd closely. He had seen nothing of Jim Thorpe during the last two months, except on the rare occasions when the foreman of the “AZ’s” had visited the saloon. And at these times neither had mentioned Eve’s wedding. Now he was anxious to find out if Jim had been amongst the spectators at the wedding, a matter which to his mind was of some importance. It was impossible to ascertain from where he stood, and finally he made his way to the bottom of the hall where the door had been opened and people were beginning to move out. As he reached the back row benches he bumped into the burly Gay.

“Seen Thorpe?” he inquired quickly.

Gay pointed through the door.

“Yonder,” he said. “Say, let’s get a drink. This dogone marryin’ racket’s calc’lated to set a camel dry.”

But Peter wanted Thorpe and refused the man’s invitation. He was glad Jim had come in for the wedding, and hurried out in pursuit. He caught his man in the act of mounting his broncho.

“Say, Jim!” he exclaimed, as he hastened up.

Nor did he continue as the ranchman turned and faced him. He had never seen quite such an expression on Jim’s face before. The dark eyes were fiercely alight, the clean-cut brows were drawn together in an expression that might have indicated either pain or rage. His jaws were hard set. And the pallor of his skin was plainly visible through the rich tanning of his face.

“Well?”

The monosyllable was jerked out through clenched teeth, and had something of defiance in it. Peter fumbled.

“I’m glad you came in,” he said, a little helplessly.

The reply he received was a laugh so harsh, so bitter, that the other was startled. It was the laugh of a beaten man who strives vainly to hide his hurt. It was an expression of tense nerves, and told of the agony of a heart laboring under its insufferable burden. It was the sign of a man driven to the extremity of endurance, telling, only too surely, of the thousand and one dangers threatening him. Peter understood, and his own manner steadied into that calm strength which was so much the man’s real personality.

“I was just going over to my shack,” he said. “You’d best walk your horse over.”

Jim shook his head.

“I’m getting back right away.”

“Well, I won’t press you,” Peter went on, his mild eyes glancing swiftly at the door of the Mission Room, where the villagers were scrambling out with a great chattering and bustle. “Just bring your plug out of the crowd, Jim,” he went on. “I’d like a word before you go.” Without waiting for his friend’s consent, he took the horse’s bridle and led the animal on one side. And, oddly enough, his direction was toward the Mission Room door. Jim submitted without much patience.

“What is it?” he demanded, as they halted within three yards of the door. “Guess I haven’t a heap of time. McLagan’s busy breaking horses, and he told me to get right out after the–ceremony.”

“Sure,” nodded Peter, “I won’t keep you long. I’d heard there was breaking on the ‘AZ’s.’ That’s just it. Now, I’m looking for a couple of plugs. One for saddle, and the other to carry a pack. You see, I’ve struck color in a curious place, and it promises good. But it’s away off, near twenty miles in the foot-hills. It’s an outcrop I’ve been tracing for quite a while, and if my calculations are right, the reef comes right along down here through Barnriff. You see, I’ve been working on those old Indian stories.”

He paused, and his quick eyes saw that the crowd was lining the doorway waiting for Eve and her husband to come out. Jim was interested in his tale in spite of himself, yet fidgeting to get away.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Well, I need two horses to carry myself and camp outfit. And– Say, here’s Eve,” he cried, his large hand suddenly gripping Jim’s arm and detaining him. The ranchman shook him off and made to mount his horse. But Peter had no idea of letting him go.

“Jim,” he said in a tone for the man’s ear alone, “you can’t go yet. You can’t push a horse through the crowd till she’s gone. Say, boy–you can’t go. Here she is. Just look at her. Look at her sweet, smiling eyes. Jim, look. That gal’s real happy–now. Jim, there ain’t much happiness in this world. We’re all chasing it. You and me, too–and we don’t often find it. Say, boy, you don’t grudge her her bit, do you? You’d rather see her happy, if it ain’t with you, wouldn’t you? Ah, look at those eyes. She’s seen us, you and me. That’s me being such a lumbering feller. And she’s coming over to us; Will, too.” His grip on the man’s arm tightened, and his voice dropped to a low whisper. “Jim, you can’t go, now. You’ve got to speak to her. You’re a man, a real live man; get a grip on that–and don’t forget.”

Then he released his hold, and Eve and Will came up. Eve’s radiant eyes smiled on him, but passed at once to Jim. And she left Will’s arm to move nearer to him. Peter’s eyes were on the darkening brows of her husband, and the moment Eve’s hand slipped from his arm, he gave the latter no choice but to speak to him. He began at once, and with all his resource held him talking, while Eve demanded Jim’s congratulations.

“Jim,” she said, “I haven’t seen you since–since–”

“No, Eve.” Then the man cleared his throat. It was parching, and he felt that words were impossible. What trick was this Peter had played on him? He longed to flee, yet in the face of all that crowd he could not. He knew he must smile, and with all the power of his body he set himself to the task.

“You see we’ve been up to our necks in work. I–I just snatched the morning to see you–you married.”

“And no congratulations? Oh, Jim! And I’ve always looked on you and Peter as–as my best friends.”

Every word she uttered struck home through the worn armor of his restraint. He longed madly to seize this woman in his arms and tear her from the side of his rival. The madness of his love cried out to him, and sent the blood surging to his brain. But he fought–fought himself with almost demoniac fury, and won.

“Eve,” he said, with an intensity that must have struck her had she not been so exalted by her own emotions, “I wish you the greatest happiness that ever fell to a woman’s lot. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, this world’ll give you everything you most wish for. And, further, you are right to reckon Peter and me your best friends. As a favor, I ask you that whenever our friendship can be of service to you you’ll call upon it. Good-bye and–bless you.”

He had his reward, if reward it could be called. Eve thrust out one white-gloved hand and seized his, squeezing it with a gentle pressure that set his blood throbbing through his veins afresh.

Then the agony passed, and left him cold. The warm hand was withdrawn, and the girl turned back to her husband. Peter relinquished his ward. The big man’s end had been accomplished. As husband and wife walked away, and the crowd dispersed, he turned to Jim, who stood gazing straight in front of him. He looked into his face, and the smile in his eyes disappeared. The expression of Jim’s face had changed, and where before storm had raged in every pulse, now there was a growing peace.

“Jim,” he said gently, “about those horses–”

“Guess you won’t need them now?”

Thorpe looked up into the grizzled face with a half ironical smile, but without displeasure.

“Peter, you had me beat from the start.”

But Peter shook his head.

“It’s you who’ve won to-day, boy. Guess you’ve beat the devil in you to a hash. Yes; I need those horses, an’ you can get ’em for me from McLagan.”

CHAPTER XII

THE QUEST OF PETER BLUNT

The crisp air of summer early morning, so fragrant, so invigorating, eddied across the plains, wafting new life to the lungs, and increased vigor to jaded muscles. The sun was lifting above the horizon, bringing with it that expansion to the mind which only those whose lives are passed in the open, and whose waking hours are such as Nature intended, may know.

The rustling grass, long, lean at the waving tops, but rich and succulent in its undergrowth, spoke of awakening life, obeying that law which man, in his superiority, sets aside to suit his own artificial pleasures. The sparkling morning haze shrouding the foot-hills was lifting, yielding a vision of natural beauty unsurpassed at any other time of the day. The earth was good–it was clean, wholesome, purified by the long restful hours of night, and ready to yield, as ever, those benefits to animal life which Nature so generously showers upon an ungrateful world.

Peter Blunt straightened up from his camp-fire which he had just set going. He stretched his great frame and drank in the nectar of the air in deep gulps. The impish figure of Elia sat on a box to windward of the fire, watching his companion with calm eyes. He was enjoying himself as he had rarely ever enjoyed himself. He was free from the trammels of his sister’s loving, guiding hand–trammels which were ever irksome to him, and which, somewhere inside him, he despised as a bondage to which his sex had no right to submit. He was with his friend Peter, helping him in his never-ending quest for gold. Hunting for gold. It sounded good in the boy’s ears. Gold. Everybody dreamed of gold; everybody sought it–even his sister. But this–this was a new life.

There were Peter’s tools, there was their camp, there was the work in process. There was his own little A tent, which Peter insisted that he should sleep in, while, for himself, he required only the starry sky as a roofing, and good thick blankets, to prevent the heat going out of his body while he slept. Yes; the boy was happy in his own curious way. He was living on “sow-belly” and “hardtack,” and extras in the way of “canned truck,” and none of the good things which his sister had ever made for him had tasted half so sweet as the rough cooking of this wholesome food by Peter. Something like happiness was his just now; but he regretted that it could only last until his sister returned to Barnriff. The boy’s interest in the coming day’s work now inspired his words.

“We go on with this sinking?” he inquired; and there was a boyish pride in the use of the plural.

Peter nodded. His eyes were watching the fire, to see that it played no trick on him.

“Yep, laddie,” he said, in his kindly way. “We’ve got a bully prospect here. We’ll see it through after we’ve had breakfast. Sleepy?”

Elia returned him an unsmiling negative. Smiling was apparently unnatural to him. The lack of it and the lack of expression in his eyes, except when stirred by terror, showed something of the warp of his mind.

“You aren’t damp, or–or anything? There’s a heap of dew around.” The man was throwing strips of “sow-belly” into the pan, and the coffee water was already set upon the flaming wood.

“You needn’t to worry ’bout them things for me, Peter,” Elia declared peevishly. “Wimmin folks are like that, an’ it sure makes me sick.”

The other laughed good-naturedly as he took a couple of handfuls of the “hardtack” out of a sack.

“You’d be a man only they won’t let you, eh? You’ve the grit, laddie, there’s no denying.”

The boy felt pleased. Peter understood him. He liked Peter, only sometimes he wished the man wasn’t so big and strong. Why wasn’t he hump-backed with a bent neck and a “game” leg? Why wasn’t he afraid of things? Then he never remembered seeing Peter hurt anything, and he loved to hurt. He felt as if he’d like to thrust a burning brand on Peter’s hand while he was cooking, and see if he was afraid of the hurt, the same as he would be. Then his mind came back to things of the moment. This gold prospecting interested him more than anything else.

“How far are we from Barnriff?” he asked abruptly.

“Twenty odd miles west. Why?”

“I was kind o’ wonderin’. Seems we’ve been headin’ clear thro’ fer Barnriff since we started from way back there on the head waters. We sunk nine holes, hain’t we? Say, if we keep right on we’ll hit Barnriff on this line?”

“Sure.” The man’s blue eyes were watching the boy’s face interestedly.

“You found the color o’ gold, an’ the ledge o’ quartz in each o’ them holes, ain’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Well, if we keep on, an’ we find right along, we’re goin’ to find some around Barnriff.”

“Good, laddie,” Peter replied, approving his obvious reasoning. “I’m working on those old Indian yarns, and, according to them, Barnriff must be set right on a mighty rich gold mine.”

The calm eyes of the boy brightened. Barnriff on a gold mine!

“An’ when you find it?”

Peter’s eyes dropped before the other’s inquiring gaze. That was the question always before him, but it did not apply to material gold. And when he should find it, what then? Simply his quest would have closed at another chapter. His work for the moment would be finished; and he would once more have to set out on a fresh quest to appease his restless soul. He shook his head.

“We haven’t found it yet,” he said.

“But when you do?” the boy persisted.

Peter handed him his plate and his coffee, and sat down to his own breakfast. But the boy insisted on an answer.

“Yes?”

“Well, laddie, it’s kind of tough answering that. I can’t rightly tell you.”

“But a gold mine. Gee! You’ll be like a Noo York millionaire, with dollars an’ dollars to blow in at the saloon.”

Again Peter shook his head. His face seemed suddenly to have grown old. His eyes seemed to lack their wonted lustre. He sighed.

“I don’t want the dollars,” he said. “I’ve got dollars enough; so many that I hate ’em.”

Elia gaped at him.

“You got dollars in heaps?” he almost gasped. “Then why are you lookin’ for more?”

Peter buried his face in a large pannikin of coffee, and when it emerged the questioning eyes were still upon him.

“Folks guess you’re cranked on gold, an’ need it bad,” the puzzled boy went on. “They reckon you’re foolish, too, allus lookin’ around where you don’t need, ’cause there ain’t any there. I’ve heerd fellers say you’re crazy.”

Peter laughed right out.

“Maybe they’re right,” he said, lighting his pipe.

But Elia shook his head shrewdly.

“You ain’t crazy. I’d sure know it. Same as I know when a feller’s bad–like Will Henderson. But say, Peter,” he went on persuasively, “I’d be real glad fer you to tell me ’bout that gold. What you’d do, an’ why? I’m real quick understanding things. It kind o’ seems to me you’re good. You don’t never scare me like most folks. I can’t see right why–”

“Here, laddie”–Peter leaned his head back on his two locked hands, and propped himself against the pack saddle–“don’t you worry your head with those things. But I’ll tell you something, if you’re quick understanding. Maybe, if other folks heard it–grown folks–they’d sure say I was crazy. But you’re right, I’m not crazy, only–only maybe tired of things a bit. It’s not gold I’m looking for–that is, in a way. I’m looking for something that all the gold in the world can’t buy.”

His tone became reflective. He was talking to the boy, but his thoughts seemed suddenly to have drifted miles away, lost in a contemplation of something which belonged to the soul in him alone. He was like a man who sees a picture in his mind which absorbs his whole attention, and drifts him into channels of thought which belong to his solitary moments.

“I’m looking for it day in day out, weeks and years. Sometimes I think I find it, and then it’s gone again. Sometimes I think it don’t exist; then again I’m sure it does. Yes, there’ve been moments when I know I’ve found it, but it gets out of my hand so quick I can’t rightly believe I’ve ever had it. I go on looking, on and on, and I’ll go on to my dying day, I s’pose. Other folks are doing much the same, I guess, but they don’t know they’re doing it, and they’re the luckier for it. What’s the use, anyway–and yet, I s’pose, we must all work out our little share in the scheme of things. Seems to me we’ve all got our little ‘piece’ to say, all got our little bit to do. And we’ve just got to go on doing it to the end. Sometimes it’s hard, sometimes it’s so mighty easy it sets you wondering. Ah, psha!”