The Twins of Suffering Creek

He had seen all he wanted to see. His work was done. James was dead. He knew death when he saw it, and he had seen it shining in those staring eyes. James had passed over the one-way trail, and his had been the hand that had sped him upon his journey.

Now he took a deep breath and stood swaying. Then he glanced with measuring eye at the foot-box at his feet. He changed his support, and, bending slowly, dragged a rawhide rope from inside it. The next moment he fell back upon the seat. But his work had only begun. For some time he fumbled with the rope, passing it about his body and the iron stanchions of the back of the seat, and after awhile had succeeded in knotting it securely. Then, after a moment of hard breathing, he reached out and untied the reins from the rail of the cart and gathered them into his hands. And as he did so his lips moved and his voice croaked brokenly.

“Come on, Gyp,” he mumbled hoarsely. “Come, gal. Hey–you, Pete. You, too–Maisie. Come on. Get on.”

It was the word his faithful friends had awaited.

Chilled and eager, they leapt at their bits, and the traces snapped taut. They were off; and in their eager rush the reins were almost torn from the driver’s numbing fingers. Again he spoke, and in his halting words was a world of affection and encouragement.

“Easy, children,” he said. “Easy, boys an’ gals. Ther’ sure ain’t no hurry now. They’re dead–all–dead. Dead as–mutton.”

He clawed full possession of the reins again. And in a moment the cart was speeding down the long gradient that was to bear them on the prairie world beyond.

The man was lolling forward, straining on the rope that held his helpless body to the seat, and his eyes closed wearily. The speed of the team, the direction, these things meant nothing to him now. The trail was well marked right in to Spawn City. There were no turnings. That was all that mattered. These children of his would faithfully keep on their way to the end. He knew these things without thinking, and the knowledge left him indifferent. His only concern now was the gold. It was in the cart, and it must reach Spawn City. To that his honor was pledged.

The reins slipped through his fingers. He stirred uneasily. Then his eyes opened again. For a moment his sagging lips closed. He was summoning all his failing strength. He clutched the reins in one hand, and with the other knotted them about his wrist. Then, with a gasp, his left hand dropped from his task, while his right arm was held outstretched by the strain of the pulling horses upon the reins.

There was now no longer any demand for further effort, and the drooping body lolled over against the side of the cart as though the man were seeking his rest. His head hung away at a helpless angle, and his legs straggled. And thus the speeding team raced clear of the mountain world and plunged through the darkness to the prairie beyond.

The moon rose in all its cold splendor. The stars dimmed before its frigid smile. The black vault of the heavens lit with a silvery sheen, embracing the prairie world beneath its bejeweled pall.

The sea of grass lay shadowed in the moonlit dusk. But, in sharp relief, a white ribbon-like trail split it from end to end, like some forlorn creature with white outspread arms yearning in desolation–yearning for the bustle and rush of busy life which it is denied, yearning to be relieved from so desperate a solitude.

The vastness and silence dwarfs even thought. The things which are great, which have significance, which have meaning to the human mind are lost in such a world. Life itself becomes infinitesimal.

There is something moving in a tiny ebullition of dust along the white trail. It looks so small. It moves so slowly, crawling, seemingly, at a snail’s pace. It is almost microscopical in the vastness.

Yet it is only these things by comparison. It is neither small, nor is it traveling at a snail’s pace. It is a cart drawn by six horses, racing as though pursued by all the demons of the nether world.

And in the driving-seat is a curious, stiffly swaying figure. It is strangely inanimate. Yet it suggests something that no ordinary human figure could suggest. It is in its huddled attitude, its ghastly face, its staring, unseeing eyes, which gaze out in every direction, as the jolting of the cart turns and twists the body from side to side. There is something colossal, something strangely stirring in the suggestion of purpose in the figure. There is something to inspire wonder in the most sluggish mind. It tells a story of some sort of heroism. It tells a story of a master mind triumphing over bodily weakness and suffering. It tells a story of superlative defiance–the defiance of death.

The early risers of Spawn City were gathered in a stupefied crowd outside the principal hotel in the place. Six jaded horses, drawing a light spring-cart, had just pulled up. The poor creatures were utterly spent, and stood with drooping heads and distended nostrils, gasping and steaming, their weary legs tottering beneath them. Their great eyes were yearning and sunken, and their small ears lay back, indifferent to every sound or movement about them. Their last buoyancy has been expended. They have run their mad race till their hearts are nigh bursting.

But the horses were of the least interest to the onlookers. It was the dusty spring-cart that interested their curious minds–the cart, and the still and silent driver, who made no attempt to leave his seat. They stood gaping, not daring to disturb the ghastly figure, not daring even to approach it too closely. Their minds were thrilling with a morbid horror which held them silent.

But at last there came a diversion. A burly, rough-clad man pushed his way through the crowd, and his keen eyes flashed a quick look over the whole outfit. He was the sheriff, and had been hurriedly summoned.

“Wild Bill!” he muttered. “Them’s sure his plugs, too,” he added, as though seeking corroboration.

There was certainly doubt in his tone, and surprise, too; and he came to the side of the cart and gazed up into the awful face drooping forward over the outstretched arm to further convince himself. What he beheld caused him to click his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It was his only means of giving expression to the wave of horror that swept over him.

With a leap he sprang into the seat, and began releasing the knotted reins from the stiffened arm. So tight had the knots been drawn that it took some moments. Then he turned, and with difficulty removed the rawhide from about the middle of the huddled figure. Then he hailed some of the onlookers.

“Ho, you, Joe! You, too, Lalor, an’ Ned! Stand by, lads, an’ bear a hand,” he cried authoritatively. “Guess I’ll pass it out.”

Then he stood up, staring down at the stiffened body; and wonder looked out of his puzzled eyes.

“Gee! if it ain’t Wild Bill the gambler, an’–an’ he must ha’ bin dead nigh six hours.”

CHAPTER XXXII

A MAN’S LOVE

It was with strangely mixed feelings that Scipio drove Minky’s old mule down the shelving trail leading into the secret valley where stood James’ ranch-house. The recollection of his first visit to the place was a sort of nightmare which clung desperately in the back cells of memory. The dreadful incidents leading up to it and surrounding it could never be forgotten. Every detail of his headlong journey in quest of the man who had wronged him, every detail of his terrible discomfiture, would cling in his memory so long as he had life.

But, in spite of memory, in spite of his wrongs, his heart-burnings, the desolation of the past weeks, his heart rose buoyantly as he came within sight of the place in which he still persisted in telling himself that his Jessie was held a prisoner against her will. That was his nature. No optimism was too big for him. No trouble was so great that hope could altogether be crushed out of his heart.

He looked out over the splendid valley extending for miles on either hand of him, and somehow he was glad. Somehow the glorious sunlight, so softened by the shadowed forest which covered the hillsides, so gentle beneath the crowding hills which troughed in the bed of waving grass, sent his simple spirit soaring to heights of anticipatory delight which, a few days back, had seemed beyond his reach.

At that moment, in spite of all that had gone before, the place was very, very beautiful to him, life was wonderful, his very existence was a joy. For was not Jessie waiting for him beyond, in that ranch-house? Was not she waiting for his coming, that she might return with him to their home? Was she not presently to be seated beside him upon the rickety old seat of Minky’s buckboard? And his final thought caused him to glance regretfully down at the frayed cushion, wishing cordially that he could have afforded her greater comfort.

Ah, well, perhaps she would not mind just for this once. And, after all, she would be with him, which was the great thing. Wild Bill had promised him that; and he had every confidence in Wild Bill.

Then he suddenly thought of something he might have done. Surely he might have brought Vada with him. What a pity he didn’t think of it before he started out. It was foolish of him, very foolish. But he had been so full of Jessie. The thought of winning her back had quite put everything else out of his head. Yes, it was a pity. The presence of Vada would certainly have added to her happiness, she was so fond of her children.

Then he remembered his instructions. Bill had said he must go alone. He must go alone–and be prepared to fight for her. Bill was a wonderful man. He seemed to be able to do anything he chose. And somehow he felt sorry he had bluffed him into buying half his claim. He could feel the roll of bills, the result of that transaction, in his hip pocket, and the pressure of them impressed itself unpleasantly upon his conscience. He felt sure he had no right to them. He must really give them back to the gambler later. He felt that his attitude was a swindle on a good man. Bill was certainly a good man, a brave man, but he was no business man. He, Scipio, had the advantage of him there.

The buckboard rumbled down to the grassy trail which stretched from the foot of the hillside to the ranch-house. And now the pale-eyed little man bethought him of the fight Bill had promised him.

Quite unperturbed he looked down at the fierce pair of revolvers hanging at his waist. He was taking no chances this time. He had borrowed these guns from Minky, the same as he had borrowed the mule and buckboard. They were fine weapons, too. He had tried them. Oh, no, if it came to shooting he would give a different account of himself this time. Mr. James must look to himself. So must Abe Conroy. He would have no mercy. And he frowned darkly down at the gigantic weapons.

Now he considered carefully the buildings ahead. The ranch was certainly a fine place. He found it in his heart to admire it, and only felt pity that it was the house of such a pitiable scoundrel as James. And yet he really felt sorry for James. Perhaps, after all, he ought not to be too hard on the man. Of course, he was a wicked scoundrel, but that might be merely misfortune. And, anyway, Jessie, his Jessie, was a very beautiful woman.

His eyes wandered on to the distant hills, catching up the smaller details of interest as they traveled. There were hundreds of cattle grazing about, and horses, too. Then there were the fenced-in pastures and the branding corrals. James must certainly be an excellent rancher, even if he were a scoundrel.

But the place was very still. Strangely still, he thought. There was not even one of the usual camp dogs to offer him its hostile welcome. He could see none of the “hands” moving about. Perhaps they were–

Of course. For the moment he had forgotten that they were not simple ranchers. He had forgotten they were man-hunters. They were probably out on the trail pursuing their nefarious calling. And, of course, Bill knew it. That was why he had told him to drive out on this particular morning. Wonderful man, Bill!

Suddenly the distant neighing of a horse startled him, and he looked across the woods beyond the house, the direction, he calculated, whence the sound came. But there was no horse to be seen. Nothing except the darkling cover of pine woods. It was strange. He was sure the sound came from that direction. No; there was certainly nothing in the shape of a horse out there. There wasn’t even a cow. Perhaps it was a “stray” amongst the trees. So he dismissed the matter from his mind and chirruped at the old mule.

And now he came up to the ranch; and the stillness of the place became even more pronounced. It really was astonishing. Surely there must be somebody about. He pushed his guns well to the front, and drew his prairie hat forward so that the brim shaded his pale eyes. He further shifted his reins into his left hand, and sat with his right on the butt of one of his weapons. Whatever was to come he was ready for it. One thing he had made up his mind to; he would stand no nonsense from anybody–certainly not from James or Conroy.

The old mule plodded on, and, with the instinct of its kind, headed in the direction of the nearest corral. And Scipio was forced to abandon his warlike attitude, and with both hands drag him away into the direction of the house door. But somehow in those last moments he entirely forgot that his mission was a fighting one, and sat shaking the reins and chirruping noisily in the approved manner of any farmer on a visit.

He stared up at the house as he came. His eyes were filled with longing. He forgot the barns, the corrals as possible ambushes. He forgot every thought of offense or defense. There was the abode of his beloved Jessie, and all he wondered was in which part of it lay her prison. He was overflowing with a love so great that there was no room in either brain or body for any other thought or feeling.

But Jessie was nowhere to be seen, and a shadow of disappointment clouded his face as he halted the only too willing beast and clambered down between the spidery wheels. Nor did he wait to secure his faithful servitor, or to think of anything practical at all. He hustled up to the open doorway, and, pushing his head in through it, called till the echoes of the place rang–

“Ho, Jess! Ho, you, Jess! It’s me–Zip! I come to fetch you to home.”

The echoes died away and the place became still again. And somehow the quiet of it set him bristling. His hands flew to his guns and remained there while he stood listening. But no answer came, and his redundant hope slowly ebbed, leaving a muddy shore of apprehension.

Then, with one glance back over his shoulder, he moved into the building with much the stealth of a thief. In the living-room he stood and stared about him uncertainly. It was the same room he had been in before, and he remembered its every detail. Suddenly he pushed the evil of those recollections aside and called again–

“Ho, Jess! Ho-o-o!”

But the confidence had gone from his tone, and his call suggested an underlying doubt.

Again came the echoes. Again they died. Then–yes–there was a sound that had nothing to do with echoes. Again–yes–sure. It was the sound of someone moving in an upper room. He listened attentively, and again his eyes brightened with ready hope.

“Jess! Jess!” he called.

And this time there was an answer.

Without a moment’s hesitation, without a second’s thought, he dashed through an open doorway and ran up the narrow flight of stairs beyond.

At last, at last! His Jessie! He had heard her voice. He had heard the music he had longed for, craved for, prayed for. Was there anything in the world that mattered else? Was there anything in the world that could keep him from her now? No, not now. His love permeated his whole being. There was no thought in his mind of what she had done. There was no room in his simple heart for anything but the love he could not help, and would not have helped if he could. There was no obstacle now, be it mountain or stream, that he could not bridge to reach his Jessie. His love was his life, and his life belonged to–Jessie.

He reached the top of the stairs, and a door stood open before him. He did not pause to consider what lay beyond. His instinct guided him. His love led him whither it would, and it led him straight into the presence he desired more than all the world. It led him straight to Jessie.

For the fraction of a second he became aware of a vision of womanhood, to him the most perfect in all the world. He saw the well-loved face, now pale and drawn with suffering and remorse. He saw the shadowed eyes full of an affrighted, hunted expression. And, with a cry that bore in its depth all the love of a heart as big as his small body, he ran forward to clasp her in his arms.

But Jessie’s voice arrested him half-way. It thrilled with hysterical denial, with suffering, regret, horror. And so commanding was it that he had no power to defy its mandate.

“No, no,” she shrilled. “Keep back–back. You must not come near me. I am not fit for you to touch.”

“Not fit–?”

Scipio stared helplessly at her, his eyes settling uncertainly upon her hands as though he expected to find upon them signs of some work she might have been engaged upon–some work that left her, as she had said, unfit to touch. His comprehension was never quick. His imagination was his weakest point.

Then his eyes came to her well-loved face again, and he shook his head.

“You–you got me beat, Jess. I–”

“Ah, Zip, Zip!” Suddenly Jessie’s hands went up to her face and her eyes were hidden. It was the movement of one who fears to witness the hatred, the loathing, the scorn which her own accusing mind assures her she merits. It was the movement of one whose heart was torn by remorse and shame, whose eyes were open to her sins, and who realizes that earthly damnation is her future lot. Her bosom heaved, and dry sobs choked her. And the little man, who had come so far to claim her, stood perplexed and troubled.

At last he struggled out a few words, longing to console, but scarcely understanding how to go about it. All he understood was that she was ill and suffering.

“Say, Jess, you mustn’t to cry,” he said wistfully. “Ther’ ain’t nothin’ to set you cryin’. Ther’ sure ain’t–”

But a woman’s hysteria was a thing unknown to him, and his gentle attempt was swept aside in a torrent of insensate denial.

“No, no! Don’t come near me,” she cried in a harsh, strident tone. “Leave me. Leave me to my misery. Don’t dare to come here mocking me. Don’t dare to accuse me. Who are you to accuse? You are no better than me. You have no right to come here as my judge. You, with your smooth ways, your quiet sneers. Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare! I’m no longer your wife, so you have no right. I’m his–his. Do you understand? I’m his. I shall live the life I choose, and you shall not molest me. I know you. You’ve come to accuse me, to tell me all I am, to tax me with my shame. It’s cruel–cruel. Oh, God, help me–help me!”

The woman’s voice died out in a piteous wail that smote straight to the heart of the little man who stood shaking before her hysterical outbreak. He knew not what to do. His love prompted him to go to her and crush her to his simple, loving heart, but somehow he found himself unable to do anything but gaze with longing eyes upon the heart-broken figure, as she leant upon the foot-rail of the bed.

He stirred. And in the moments that passed while his eyes were fixed upon her rich, heaving bosom, his mind groping vaguely, he became aware of everything about him. He knew he was in her bedroom. He knew that the furnishings were good. He knew that the sunlight was pouring in through the open window, and that a broad band of dazzling light was shining upon her lustrous dark hair. He knew all these things in the same way that he knew she was suffering so that she came near breaking his own sympathetic heart.

But though his intellect failed him, and he had no idea of what he ought to say or do, words came at last and tumbled headlong from his lips, just as they were inspired, all unconsidered, by his heart.

“Say, Jessie gal,” he cried in a softly persuasive tone, “won’t you come to home–an’–an’ help me out? Won’t you, gal?”

But he was given no time to complete his appeal. The woman suddenly raised her face, and once more broke out in hysterical fury.

“Home? Home? With you?” she cried. “Ha, ha! That’s too good! Home, with you to forever remind me what I am? For you to sneer at me, and point me to your friends for what I am? Never, never! Go you back where you came from. I’m not a wife. Do you hear? God help me, I’m–” And she buried her face again upon her arms.

“Won’t you come to home, gal?” the man persisted. “Won’t you? I’m so desp’rit lonesome. An’ the kids, too. Gee! they’re jest yearnin’ an’ yearnin’ for you–nigh as bad as me.”

He took a step towards her with his arms outstretched. All his soul was in his mild eyes. And presently Jessie raised her head again. She stood staring at the wall opposite her. It was as though she dared not face him. Her eyes were burning, but they were less wild, and a sudden hope thrilled the man’s heart. He hurried on, fearful lest the old storm should break out again–

“Y’see, Jess, ther’ ain’t nuthin’ to our pore little shack on the ‘dumps’ without you. Ther’ sure ain’t. Then ther’s my claim. I sold ha’f. An’–an’ I got money now–I–”

The woman’s eyes turned slowly upon him. They were red with unshed tears. Their expression was curious. There was doubt and shrinking in them. It almost seemed as if she were wondering if all the past days of regret and longing had turned her brain, and she were listening to words conjured by a distorted fancy, some insane delusion. She could not believe. But Scipio continued, and his voice was real enough.

“I–know I ain’t much of a feller for the likes of you, Jess,” he said earnestly. “I ain’t quick. I ain’t jest bright. But I do love you, my dear. I love you so I can’t think nothin’ else. I want you to home, Jess, that bad, I thank God ev’ry day He give you to me. I want you so bad it don’t seem you ever bin away from me. I want you that bad I can’t remember the last week or so. You’ll come–to home, gal–now? Think–jest think o’ them bits o’ twins. You wait till you see ’em laff when they get eyes on you. Say, they’re that bonny an’ bright. They’re jest like you, wi’ their eyes all a-sparklin’, an’ their cheeks that rosy. Gee! they’re jest a-yearnin’ an’ a-callin’ fer their mam–same as me.”

The little man had moved another step nearer. His arms were still outstretched, and his quaint face was all aglow with the warmth and love that stirred him. Somewhere in the back of his dull head he knew that he was pleading for something more than his life. He had no subtlety in his manner or his words. It was just his heart talking for him and guiding him.

And in the woman had risen a sudden hope. It was a struggling ray of light in the blackness of her despair. It was a weak struggling flicker–just a flicker. And even as it rose its power was dashed again in the profundity of her suffering. She could not grasp the hand held out–she could not see it. She could not believe the words her ears heard.

“No, no, don’t mock at me,” she cried, with a sudden return to her old wildness. “It is cruel, cruel! Leave me. For pity’s sake go. How can you stand there taunting me so? How can I go with you? How can I face my children now? Do you know what I am? No, no, of course you don’t. You could never understand. You, with your foolish, simple mind. Shall I tell you what I am? Shall I say it? Shall I–”

But the man’s hand went up and held her silent.

“You don’t need to say nothing, Jess,” he said in his mildest tone. “You don’t need to, sure. Whatever you are, you’re all the world to me–jest all.”

With a sudden cry the woman’s head dropped upon her outspread arms, and the merciful tears, so long denied her, gushed forth. Her body heaved, and it seemed to the distraught man that her poor heart must be breaking. He did not know what those tears meant to her. He did not know that the victory of his love was very, very near. Only he saw her bowed in passionate distress, and he had no thought of how to comfort her.

He waited, waited. But the flood once broken loose must needs spend itself. Such is the way with women, of whom he had so small an understanding. He turned away to the window. He stared with unseeing eyes at the fair picture of the beautiful valley. The moments passed–long, dreary moments rapidly changing to minutes. And then at last the storm began to die down, and he turned again towards her and drew a step nearer.