CHAPTER XVII
GORDON RIDES INTO THE COUNTRY
Gordon rode aimlessly out of the little town with its twinkling lights.He did not care where he went or what direction he pursued. He wanted toride off a strange, enervating dejection that had laid hold of him themoment his last testimony had gone in. It all seemed so pitifullyinadequate--without Williston,--now that it was all in. Why had heundertaken it? It could only go for another defeat counted against him.Though what was one defeat more or less when there had been so many? Itwould be nothing new. Was he not pursuing merely the old beaten trail?Why should the thought weigh so heavily now? Can a man never attain tothat higher--or lower, which is it?--altitude of strifeless, unregretfulhardness? Or was it, he asked himself in savage contempt of hisweakness, that, despite all his generous and iron clad resolutions, hehad secretly, unconsciously perhaps, cherished a sweet, shy, littlereservation in his inmost heart that maybe--if he won out--
"You poor fool," he said, aloud, with bitter harshness.
Suppose he did. A brave specimen, he, if he had the shameful egoism toask a girl--a girl like Louise--a gentle, highbred, protected, cherishedgirl like that--to share this new, bleak, rough life with him. But thevery sweetness of the thought of her doing it made him gasp there in thedarkness. How stifling the air was! He lifted his hat. It was hard tobreathe. It was like the still oppressiveness preceding an electricalstorm. His mare, unguided, had naturally chosen the main travelled trailand kept it. She followed the mood of her master and walked leisurelyalong while the man wrestled with himself.
If he really possessed the hardihood to ask Louise to do this forhim, she would laugh at him. Stay! That was a lie--a black lie. Shewould not laugh--not Louise. She was not of that sort. Rather wouldshe grieve over the inevitable sadness of it. If she laughed, he couldbear it better--he had good, stubborn, self-respecting blood in him,--butshe would not laugh. And all the rest of his long life must be spent inwishing--wishing--if it could have been! But he would never ask her to doit. Not even if the impossible came to pass. It was a hard country onwomen, a hard, treeless, sun-seared, unkindly country. Men could standit--fight for its future; but not women like Louise. It made men as wellas unmade them. And after all it did not prove to be the undoing of menso much as it developed in them the perhaps hitherto hidden fact thatthey were already wanting. These latent, constitutional weaknesses thuslaid bare, the bad must for a while prevail--bad is so much noisier thangood. But this big, new country with its infinite possibilities--give ittime--it would form men out of raw material and make over men mistakenlymade when that was possible, or else show the dividing line so clearlythat the goats might not herd with the sheep. Some day, it would be fitfor women--like Louise. Not now. Much labor and sorrow must be livedthrough; there must be many mistakes, many experiments tried, there mustbe much sacrifice and much refining, and many must fall and lose in therace before its big destiny be worked out and it be fit for women--likeLouise. Down in the southern part of the State, and belonging to it, acertain big barred building sheltered many women, when the sun of thetreeless prairies and the gazing into the lonesome distances surroundingtheir homesteads seeped into their brains and stayed there so that theyknew not what they did. There were trees there and fountains and restfulblue-grass in season, and flowers, flowers, flowers--but these came toolate for most of the women.
Louise was not of that sort. The roughness and the loneliness wouldsimply wear her away and she would die--smiling to the last. What leeringfate had led her hither to show him what he had missed by choosing as hehad chosen to throw himself into the thankless task of preparing a newcountry for--a future generation? This accomplished, she would flitlightly away and never know the misery she had left behind or the flavorand zest she had filched from the work of one man, at least, who hadentered upon it with lofty ambition, high hopes, and immutable purpose.What then would he have wished? That she had not come at all?
He smiled. If Louise could have seen that smile, or the almost dewysoftness which stole into his eyes--the eyes that were too keen foreveryday living! That he loved her was the one thing in life worthwhile. Then why rail at fate? If he had not chosen as he had, he shouldnever have known Louise. He must have gone through life without thatdear, exquisite, solemn sense of her--in his arms--those arms to which ithad been given to draw her back from a cruel death. That fulfilment washis for all time. How sweet she was! He seemed to feel again the softpressure of her clinging arms,--remembering how his lips had brushed herfair hair. If it had been Langford, now, who was guilty of so ridiculousa sentimentalism--the bold, impetuous, young ranchman--he smiled athimself whimsically. Then he pulled himself together. He did not thinkthe jury could believe the story Jesse Black would trump up, no matterhow plausible it was made to sound. He felt more like himself,--in bettercondition to meet those few but staunch friends of his from whom he hadso summarily run away,--stronger to meet--Louise. Man-like, now that hewas himself again, he must know the time. He struck a match.
"Why, Lena, old girl, we've been taking our time, haven't we? They arelikely through supper, but maybe I can wheedle a doughnut out of thecook."
The match burned out. Not until he had tossed it away did it come to himthat they were no longer on the main trail.
"Now, that's funny, old girl," he scolded. "What made you be sounreasonable? Well, we started with our noses westward, so you must havewandered into the old Lazy S branch trail. Though, to be sure, it hasbeen such a deuce of a while since we travelled it that I wonder at you,Lena. Well, we'll just jog back. What's the matter now, silly?"
His mare had shied. He turned her nose resolutely, domineeringly, backtoward the spot objected to.
"I can't see what you're scared at, but we'll just investigate and showyou how foolish a thing is feminine squeamishness."
A shadowy form arose out of the darkness. It approached.
"Is that you, Dick?"
Gordon was not a superstitious man, yet he felt suddenly cold to thecrown of his head. It was not so dark as it might have been. There wouldhave been a moon had it not been cloudy. Dimly, he realized that the manhad arisen from the ruins of what must have been the old Willistonhomestead. The outlines of the stone stoop were vaguely visible in thehalf light. The solitary figure had been crouched there, brooding.
"I'm flesh and blood, Dick, never fear," said the man in a mournfulvoice. "I'm hungry enough to vouch for that. You needn't be afraid. I'manything but a spirit."
"Williston!" The astonished word burst from Gordon's lips. "Williston!Is it really you?"
"None other, my dear Gordon! Sorry I startled you. I saw your light andheard your voice speaking to your horse, and as you were the very man Iwas on the point of seeking, I just naturally came forward, forgettingthat my friends would very likely look upon me in the light of a ghost."
"Williston! My dear fellow!" repeated Gordon again. "It is too good tobe true," he cried, leaping from his mare and extending both handscordially. "Shake, old man! My, the feel of you is--bully. You are fleshand blood all right. You always did have a good, honest shake for afellow. I don't know, though. Seems to me you have been kind o' runningto skin and bones since I last saw you. Grip's good, but bony. You'rethinner than ever, aren't you?"
All this time he was shaking Williston's hands heartily. He neverthought of asking him where he had been. For weary months he had longedfor this man to come back. He had come back. That was enough for thepresent. He had always felt genuinely friendly toward the unfortunatescholar and his daughter.
"That's natural, isn't it? Besides, they forgot my rations sometimes."
"Who, Williston?" asked Gordon, the real significance of the man'sreturn taking quick hold of him.
"I think you know, Gordon," said the older man, quietly. "It is a longstory. I was coming to you. I will tell you everything. Shall I beginnow?"
"Are you in any danger of pursuit?" asked Gordon, suddenly bethinkinghimself.
"I think not. I killed my jailer, the half-breed,
Nightbird."
"You did well. So did Mary."
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't you know that Mary shot and killed one of the desperadoes thatnight? At least, we have every reason to think it was Mary. By the way,you have not asked after her."
The man's head drooped. He did not answer for a long time. When heraised his head, his face, though showing indistinctly, was hard anddrawn. He spoke with little emotion as a man who had sounded the gamutof despair and was now far spent.
"What was the use? I saw her fall, Gordon. She stood with me to the end.She was a brave little girl. She never once faltered. Dick," he said,his voice changing suddenly, and laying hot, feverish hands on the youngman's shoulders, "we'll hang them--you and I--we'll hang them everyone,--the devils who look like men, but who strike at women. We'll hangthem, I say--you and I. I've got the evidence."
"Is it possible they didn't tell you?" cried Gordon, aghast at theamazing cruelty of it.
"Tell me anything? Not they. She was such a good girl, Dick. There neverwas a better. She never complained. She never got her screens, poorgirl. I wish she could have had her screens before they murdered her.Where did you lay her, Dick?"
"Mr. Williston," said Dick, taking firm hold of the man's burning handsand speaking with soothing calmness, "forgive me for not telling you atonce. I thought you knew. I never dreamed that you might have beenthinking all the while that Mary was dead. She is alive and well andwith friends. She only fainted that night. Come, brace up! Why, manalive, aren't you glad? Well, then, don't go to pieces like a child.Come, brace up, I tell you!"
"You--you--wouldn't lie to me, would you, Dick?"
"As God is my witness, Mary is alive and in Kemah this minute--unless anearthquake has swallowed the hotel during my absence. I saw her lessthan two hours ago."
"Give me a minute, my dear fellow, will you? I--I--"
He walked blindly away a few steps and sat down once more on the ruinsof his homestead. Gordon waited. The man sat still--his head buried inhis hands. Gordon approached, leading his mare, and sat down beside him.
"Now tell me," he said, with simple directness.
An hour later, the two men separated at the door of the Whites' claimshanty.
"Lie low here until I send for you," was Gordon's parting word.