CHAPTER XIII
THE YOUNG EAGLE DREAMS OF A MATE
As the young men sat at supper that night a note was handed to Jack bythe clerk. Upon opening it he found a smaller envelope addressed to "Mr.Harding." Harold took it, but did not open it, though it promised well,being quite thick with leaves. Jack read his note at a glance and passedit across the table. It was simple:
"DEAR MR. BURNS: Won't you please see that the inclosed note reaches Harold. I wish you could persuade him to come and see me once more before he goes. I shall expect to see _you_ anyhow. Father does not suspect anything out of the ordinary as yet, and it will be quite safe.
"Your friend, "MARY YARDWELL."
As soon as he decently could Harold went to his room and opened theimportant letter. In it the reticent-girl had uttered herself withunusual freedom. It was a long letter, and its writer must have gone toits composition at once after the door had closed upon her visitors. Itbegan abruptly, too:
"DEAR FRIEND: My heart aches for you. From the time I first saw you in the jail I have carried your face in my mind. I can't quite analyze my feeling for you now. You are so different from the boy I knew. I think I am a little afraid of you, you scare me a little. You are of another world, a strange world of which I would like to hear. I have a woman's curiosity, I can't let you go away until you tell me all your story. I would like to say something on my own side also. Can't you come and see me once more? My father is going to be away at his farm all day to-morrow, can't you come with Mr. Burns and take dinner with me and tell me all about yourself--your life is so strange.
"There will be no one there (I mean at dinner) but Mr. Burns and you, and we can talk freely. Does being 'under indictment' mean that you are in danger of arrest? I want to understand all about that. You can't know how strange and exciting all these things are to me. My life is so humdrum here. You come into it like a great mountain wind. You take my words away as well as my breath. I am not like most women, words are not easy to me even when I write, though I write better than I talk--I think.
"Mr. King asked me to be his wife some months ago, and I promised to do so, but that is no reason why we should not be good friends. You have been too much in my life to go out of it altogether, though I had given up seeing you again, and then we always think of our friends as we last saw them, we can't imagine their development. Don't you find this so? You said you found me changed.
"I have little to tell you about myself. I graduated and then I spent one winter in Chicago to continue my music studies. I am teaching here summers to get pin money. It is so quiet here one grows to think all the world very far away, and the wild things among which you have lived and worked are almost unimaginable even when the newspapers describe them with the greatest minuteness.
"This letter is very rambling, I know, but I am writing as rapidly as I can, for I want to send it to you before you take the train. Please come to see me to-morrow. To-night I sing in the song service at the church. I hope you will be there. The more I think about your story the more eager to listen I become. There must be some basis of stirring deeds for all the tales they tell of you. My friends say I have a touch of the literary poison in my veins; anyhow I like a story above all things, and to hear the hero tell his own adventures will be the keenest delight.
"I am sorry I could not do more to make things easier for you to-day, but I come of men and women who are silent when they mean most. I am never facile of speech and to-day I was dumb. Perhaps if we meet on a clear understanding we will get along better. Come, anyhow, and let me know you as you are. Perhaps I have never really known you, perhaps I only imagined you.
"Your friend, "MARY YARDWELL.
"P.S. The reason for the postscript is that I have re-read the foregoing letter and find it unsatisfactory in everything except the expression of my wish to see you. I had meant to say so much and I have said so little. I am afraid now that I shall not see you at all, so I add my promise. I shall always remember you and I _will_ think of you when I sing, and I will sing If I Were a Voice every Sunday for you, especially when I am all alone, and I'll send it out to you by thought waves. You shall never fail of the best wishes of
"MARY YARDWELL."
Not being trained in psychologic subtleties, Harold took this letter tomean only what it said. He was not as profoundly moved by it as he wouldhave been could he have read beneath the lines the tumult he hadproduced in the tranquil life of its writer. One skilled in perceptionof a woman's moods could have detected a sense of weakness, orirresolution, or longing in a girl whose nature had not yet been triedby conflicting emotions.
Jack perceived something of this when Harold gave him the letter toread. His admiration of Harold's grace and power, his love for everygesture and every lineament of his boyish hero, made it possible for himto understand how deeply Mary had been moved when brought face to facewith a handsome and powerful man who loved as lions love. He handed theletter back with a smile: "I think you'd better stay over and see her."
"I intend to," replied Harold; "wire father to come up."
"Let's go walk. We may happen by the church where she sings," suggestedJack.
It was a very beautiful hour of the day. The west was filled with cool,purple-gray clouds, and a fresh wind had swept away all memory of theheat of the day. Insects filled the air with quavering song. Childrenwere romping on the lawns. Lovers sauntered by in pairs or swung underthe trees in hammocks. Old people sat reading or listlessly talkingbeside their cottage doors. A few carriages were astir. It was a day ofrest and peace and love-making to this busy little community. The millswere still and even the water seemed to run less swiftly, only thefishes below the dam had cause to regret the day's release from toil,for on every rock a fisherman was poised.
The tension being a little relieved, Harold was able to listen to Jack'snews of Rock River. His father was still preaching in the First Church,but several influential men had split off and were actively antagonizingthe majority of the congregation. The fight was at its bitterest. Maudhad now three children, and her husband was doing well in hardware. Thisold schoolmate was married, that one was dead, many had moved West.Bradley Talcott was running for State Legislator. Radbourn was inWashington.
Talking on quietly the two young men walked out of the village into alane bordered with Lombardy poplars. Harold threw himself down on thegrass beneath them and said:
"Now I can imagine I am back on the old farm. Tell me all about yourfolks."
"Oh, they're just the same. They don't change much. Father scraped somemoney together and built a new bedroom on the west side. Mother calls it'the boys' room.' By 'boys' they mean you and me. They expect us tosleep there when you come back on a visit. They'll be terriblydisappointed at not seeing you. Mother seems to think as much of you asshe does of me."
There was charm in the thought of the Burns' farm and Mrs. Burns comingand going about the big kitchen stove, the smell of wholesome cookingabout her clothing, and for the moment the desperado's brain became as achild's. There was sadness in the thought that he never again could seehis loyal friends or the old walks and lanes.
Jack aroused him and they walked briskly back toward the little churchwhich they found already quite filled with young people. The choir,including Mary, smiled at the audience and at each other, for the spiritof the little church was humanly cheerful.
The strangers found seats in a corner pew together with a pale young manand a very pretty little girl. Jack was not imaginative, but he couldnot help thinking of the commotion which would follow if those aroundhim should learn that "Black Mose" was at that moment seated among them
.Mary, seeing the dark, stern face of the plainsman, had some suchthought also. There was something gloriously unfettered, compelling, andpowerful in his presence. He made the other young men appear commonplaceand feeble in her eyes, and threw the minister into pale relief,emphasizing his serenity, his scholarship, and his security of position.
Harold gave close attention to the young minister, who, as Mary's lover,became important. As a man of action he put a low valuation on a merescholar, but King was by no means contemptible physically. Jack alsoperceived the charm of such a man to Mary, and acknowledged the goodsense of her choice. King could give her a pleasant home among peopleshe liked, while Harold could only ask her to go to the wild country, toa log ranch in a cottonwood gulch, there to live month after monthwithout seeing a woman or a child.
A bitter and desperate melancholy fell upon the plainsman. What was theuse? Such a woman was not for him. He had only the pleasure of the wildcountry. He would go back to his horses, his guns, and the hills, andnever again come under the disturbing influence of this beautifulsinger. She was not of his world; her smiles were not for him. When theothers arose in song he remained seated, his sullen face set toward thefloor, denying himself the pleasure of even seeing Mary's face as shesang.
Her voice arose above the chorus, guiding, directing, uplifting the lessconfident ones. When she sang she was certain of herself, powerful,self-contained. That night she sang with such power and sweetness thatthe minister turned and smiled upon her at the end. He spoke over thelow railing which separated them: "You surpass yourself to-night."
Looking across the heads of the audience as they began to take seatsHarold saw this smile and action, and his face darkened again.
For her solo Mary selected one which expressed in simple words thecapabilities each humble soul had for doing good. If one could not stormthe stars in song one could bathe a weary brow. If one could not write amighty poem one could speak a word of cheer to the toiler by the way.
It was all poor stuff enough, but the singer filled it with significanceand appeal. At the moment it seemed as if such things were really worthdoing. Each word came from her lips as though it had never been utteredby human lips before, so simple, so musical, so finely enunciated, sowell valued was it. To Harold, so long separated from any approach towomanly art, it appealed with enormous power. He was not onlysensitive, he was just come to the passion and impressionability offull-blooded young manhood. Powers converged upon him, and simple anddirect as he was, the effects were confusion and deepest dejection. Heheard nothing but Mary's voice, saw nothing but her radiant beauty. Tohim she was more wonderful than any words could express.
At the end of the singing he refused to wait till she came down theaisle, but hurried out into the open air away from the crowd. As Jackcaught up with him he said: "You go to bed; I've got to take a run outinto the country or I can't sleep at all. Father will be up in themorning, I suppose. I'll get off in the six o'clock train to-morrownight."
Jack said nothing, not even in assent, and Mose set off up the lane withmore of mental torment than had ever been his experience before.Hitherto all had been simple. He loved horses, the wild things, thetrail, the mountains, the ranch duties, and the perfect freedom of a manof action. Since the door of his prison opened to allow him to escapeinto the West he had encountered no doubts, had endured no remorse, andhad felt but little fear. All that he did was forthright, manly,single-purposed, and unhesitating.
Now all seemed changed. His horses, his guns, the joys of free spaces,were met by a counter allurement which was the voice of a woman. Strongas he was, stern as he looked, he was still a boy in certain ways, andthis mental tumult, so new and strange to him, wearied him almost totears. It was a fatigue, an ache which he could not shake off, and whenhe returned to the hotel he had settled nothing and was ready to fleefrom it all without one backward look. However, he slept soundlier thanhe thought himself capable of doing.
He was awakened early by Jack: "Harry, your father is here, and veryanxious to see you."
Mose arose slowly and reluctantly. He had nothing to say to his father,and dreaded the interview, which he feared would be unpleasantlyemotional. The father met him with face pale and hands trembling withemotion. "My son, my son!" he whispered. Mose stood silently wonderingwhy his father should make so much fuss over him.
Mr. Excell soon recovered his self-command, and his voice cleared. "Ihad almost given up seeing you, Harold. I recognize you withdifficulty--you have changed much. You seem well and strong--almost astall as I was at your age."
"I hold my own," said Harold, and they all sat down more at ease. "I gotinto rough gangs out there, but I reckon they got as good as theysent."
"I suppose the newspapers have greatly exaggerated about yourconflicts?"
Harold was a little disposed to shock his father. "Oh, yes, I don'tthink I really killed as many men as they tell about; I don't know thatI killed any."
"I hope you did not lightly resort to the use of deadly weapons," saidMr. Excell sadly.
"It was kill or be killed," said Harold grimly. "It was like shooting apack of howling wolves. I made up my mind to be just one shot ahead ofanybody. There are certain counties out there where the name 'BlackMose' means something."
"I'm sorry for that, my son. I hope you don't drink?"
"Don't you worry about that. I can't afford to drink, and if I could Iwouldn't. Oh, I take a glass of beer with the boys once in a while on ahot day, but it's my lay to keep sober. A drunken man is a soft mark."He changed the subject: "Seems to me you're a good deal grayer."
Mr. Excell ran his fingers through the tumbled heap of his grizzledhair. "Yes; things are troubling me a little. The McPhails are fightingme in the church, and intend to throw me out and ruin me if they can,but I shall fight them till the bitter end. I am not to be whipped outlike a dog."
"That's the talk! Don't let 'em run you out. I got run out of Cheyenne,but I'll never run again. I was only a kid then. After you throw 'emdown, come out West and round up the cowboys. They won't play anyunderhanded games on you, and mebbe you can do them somegood--especially on gambling. They are sure enough idiots about cards."
They went down to breakfast together, but did not sit together.
Jack and Harold talked in low voices about Mr. Excell.
"The old man looks pretty well run down, don't he?" said Harold.
"He worries a whole lot about you."
"He needn't to. When does he go back?"
"He wants to stay all day--just as long as he can."
"He'd better pull right out on that ten o'clock train. His being here issure to give me away sooner or later."
It was hard for the father to say good-by. He had a feeling that it wasthe last time he should ever see him, and his face was gray withsuffering as he faced his son for the last time. Harold became notmerely unresponsive, he grew harsher of voice each moment. His father'stremulous and repeated words seemed to him foolish and absurd--and alsoinconsiderate. After he was gone he burst out in wrath.
"Why can't he act like a man? I don't want anybody to snivel over me.Suppose I _am_ to be shot this fall, what of it?"
This disgust and bitterness prepared him, strange to say, for his callupon Mary. He entered the house, master of himself and the situation.His nerves were like steel, and his stern face did not quiver in itsminutest muscle, though she met him in most gracious mood, dressed asfor conquest and very beautiful.
"I'm so glad you stayed over," she said. "I have been so eager to hearall about your life out there." She led the way to the little parloronce more and drew a chair near him.
"Well," he began, "it isn't exactly the kind of life your Mr. Kingleads."
There was a vengeful sneer in his voice which Mary felt as if he hadstruck her, but she said gently:
"I suppose our life does seem very tame to you now."
"It's sure death. I couldn't stand it for a year; I'd rot."
Mary was aware that some sinister change had come over
him, and shepaused to study him keenly. The tremulous quality of his voice andaction had passed away. He was hard, stern, self-contained, and she(without being a coquette) determined that his mood should give way tohers. He set himself hard against the charm of her lovely presence andthe dainty room. Mary ceased to smile, but her brows remained level.
"You men seem to think that all women are fond only of the quiet things,but it isn't true. We like the big deeds in the open air, too. I'd liketo see a cattle ranch and take a look at a 'round-up,' though I don'tknow exactly what that means."
"Well, we're not on the round-up all the time," he said, relaxing alittle. "It's pretty quiet part of the time; that is, quiet for ourcountry. But then, you're always on a horse and you're out in the air onthe plains with the mountains in sight. There's a lot of hard work aboutit, too, and it's lonesome sometimes when your're ridin' the lines, butI like it. When it gets a little too tame for me I hit the trail for themountains with an Indian. The Ogallalahs are my friends, and I'm goingto spend the winter with them and then go into the West Elk country. I'mdue to kill a grizzly this year and some mountain sheep." He was startednow, and Mary had only to listen. "Before I stop, I'm going to know allthere is to know of the Rocky Mountains. With ol' Kintuck and myWinchester I'm goin' to hit the sunset trail and hit it hard. There'snothing to keep me now," he said with a sudden glance at her. "It don'tmatter where I turn up or pitch camp. I reckon I'd better not try to bea cattle king." He smiled bitterly and pitilessly at the poor figure hecut. "I reckon I'm a kind of a mounted hobo from this on."
"But your father and sister----"
"Oh, she isn't worryin' any about me; I haven't had a letter from herfor two years. All I've got now is Jack, and he'd be no earthly good onthe trail. He'd sure lose his glasses in a fight, and then he couldn'ttell a grizzly from a two-year-old cow. So you see, there's nothing tohinder me from going anywhere. I'm footloose. I want to spend one summerin the Flat Top country. Ute Jim tells me it's fine. Then I want to gointo the Wind River Mountains for elk. Old Talfeather, chief of theOgallalahs, has promised to take me into the Big Horn Range. After thatI'm going down into the southwest, down through the Uncompagre country.Reynolds says they're the biggest yet, and I'm going to keep right downinto the Navajo reservation. I've got a bid from old Silver Arrow, andthen I'm going to Walpi and see the Mokis dance. They say they carrylive rattlesnakes in their mouths. I don't believe it: I'm going to see.Then I swing 'round to the Grand Canon of the Colorado. They say that'sthe sorriest gash in the ground that ever happened. Reynolds gave me aletter to old Hance; he's the man that watches to see that no onecarries the hole away. Then I'm going to take a turn over the Mohavedesert into Southern California. I'm due at the Yosemite Valley about ayear from next fall. I'll come back over the divide by way of SaltLake."
He was on his feet, and his eyes were glowing. He seemed to haveforgotten all women in the sweep of his imaginative journey.
"Oh, that will be grand! How will you do it?"
"On old Kintuck, if his legs don't wear off."
"How will you live?"
"Forage where I can. Turn to and help on a 'round-up,' or 'drive' whereI can--shoot and fish--oh, I'll make it if it takes ten years."
"Then what?" Mary asked, with a curious intonation.
"Then I'll start for the Northwest," he replied after a littlehesitation--"if I live. Of course the chances are I'll turn up my toessomewhere on the trail. A man is liable to make a miss-lick somewhere,but that's all in the game. A man had better die on the trail than in adead furrow."
Mary looked at him with dreaming eyes. His strange moods filled her withnew and powerful emotions. The charm of the wild life he depictedappealed to her as well as to him. It was all a fearsome venture, butafter all it was glorious. The placid round of her own life seemed forthe moment intolerably commonplace. There was epic largeness in thecircuit of the plainsman's daring plans. The wonders of Nature which hecatalogued loomed large in the misty knowledge she held of the West. Shecried out:
"Oh, I wish I could see those wonderful scenes!"
He turned swiftly: "You can; I'll take you."
She shrank back. "Oh, no! I didn't mean that--I meant--some time----"
His face darkened. "In a sleeping car, I reckon. That time'll nevercome."
Then a silence fell on them. Harold knew that his plans could not becarried out with a woman for companion--and he had sense enough to knowthat Mary's words were born of a momentary enthusiasm. When he spoke itwas with characteristic blunt honesty.
"No; right here our trails fork, Mary. Ever since I saw you in the jailthe first time, you've been worth more to me than anything else in theworld, but I can see now that things never can go right with you and me.I couldn't live back here, and you couldn't live with me out there. I'ma kind of an outlaw, anyway. I made up my mind last night that I'd hitthe trail alone. I won't even ask Jack to go with me. There's somethingin me here"--he laid his hand on his breast--"that kind o' chimes inwith the wind in the pinons and the yap of the ky-ote. The rooster andthe church bells are too tame for me. That's all there is about it.Maybe when I get old and feeble in the knees I'll feel like pitchin' apermanent camp, but just now I don't; I want to be on the move. If I hada nice ranch, and you, I might settle down now, but then you couldn'tstand even a ranch with nearest neighbors ten miles away." He turned totake his hat. "I wanted to see you--I didn't plan for anythingelse--I've seen you and so----"
"Oh, you're not going now!" she cried. "You haven't told me your story."
"Oh, yes, I have; all that you'd care to hear. It don't amount to much,except the murder charges, and they are wrong. It wasn't my fault. Theycrowded me too hard, and I had to defend myself. What is a man to dowhen it's kill or be killed? That's all over and past, anyway. From thistime on I camp high. The roosters and church bells are getting too thickon the Arickaree."
He crushed his hat in his hand as he turned to her, and tears were inher eyes as she said:
"Please don't go; I expected you to stay to dinner with me."
"The quicker I get out o' here the better," he replied hoarsely, and shesaw that he was trembling. "What's the good of it? I'm out of it."
She looked up at him in silence, her mind filled with the confusedstruggle between her passion and her reason. He allured her, this graveand stern outlaw, appealing to some primitive longing within her.
"I hate to see you go," she said slowly. "But--I--suppose it is best. Idon't like to have you forget me--I shall not forget you, and I willsing for you every Sunday afternoon, and no matter where you are, in adeep canon, or anywhere, or among the Indians, you just stop and listenand think of me, and maybe you'll hear my voice."
Tears were in her eyes as she spoke, and he took a man's advantage ofher emotion.
"Perhaps if I come back--if I make a strike somewhere--if you'd sayso----"
She shook her head sadly but conclusively. "No, no, I can't promiseanything."
"All right--that settles it. Good-by."
And she had nothing better to say than just "Good-by, good-by."