The Rangeland Avenger by Max Brand
17
At length the continued silence of the girl made him turn. Perhaps shehad slipped away. His heart was chilled at the thought; turning, hesighed with relief to find her still there.
Without a word he went back and rekindled the fire, placed new venisonsteaks over it, and broiled them with silent care. Not a sound fromJig, not a sound from the cowpuncher, while the meat hissed, blackened,and at length was done to a turn. He laid portions of it on broad,white, clean chips which he had already prepared, and served her. Stillin silence she ate. Shame held Sinclair. He dared not look at her, andhe was glad when the fire lost some of its brightness.
Now and then he looked with wonder across the mountains. All his lifethey had been faces to him, and the wind had been a voice. Now all thiswas nothing but dead stuff. There was no purpose in the march of themountains except that they led to the place where Jig sat.
He twisted together a cup of bark and brought her water from thespring. She thanked him with words that he did not hear, he was sointent in watching her face, as the firelight played on it. Now that heheld the clue, everything was as plain as day. New light played on thepast.
Turning away, he put new fuel on the fire, and when he looked to heragain, she had unbelted the revolver and was putting it away, as if sherealized that this would not help her if she were in danger.
When at length she spoke it was the same voice, and yet how new! Thequality in it made Sinclair sit a little straighter.
"You have a right to know everything that I can tell you. Do you wishto hear?"
For another moment he smoked in solemn silence. He found that he waswishing for the story not so much because of its strangeness, butbecause he wanted that voice to run on indefinitely. Yet he weighed thequestion pro and con.
"Here's the point, Jig," he said at last. "I got a good deal to make upto you. In the first place I pretty near let you get strung up for akilling I done myself. Then I been treating you pretty hard, take itall in all. You got a story, and I don't deny that I'd like to hear it;but it don't seem a story that you're fond of telling, and I ain't gotno right to ask for it. All I ask to know is one thing: When you stoodthere under that cotton wood tree, with a rope around your neck, didyou know that all you had to do was to tell us that you was a woman toget off free?"
"Of course."
"And you'd sooner have hung than tell us?"
"Yes."
Sinclair sighed. "Maybe I've said this before, but I got to say itag'in: Jig, you plumb beat me!" He brushed his hand across hisforehead. "S'pose it'd been done! S'pose I had let 'em go ahead andstring you up! They'd have been a terrible bad time ahead for themseven men. We'd all have been grabbed and lynched. A woman!"
He put the word off by itself. Then he was surprised to hear herlaughing softly. Now that he knew, it was all woman, that voice.
"It wasn't really courage, Riley. After you'd said half a dozen words Iknew you were square, and that you knew I was innocent. So I didn'tworry very much--except just after you'd sentenced me to hang!"
"Don't go back to that! I sure been a plumb fool. But why would youhave gone ahead and let that hanging happen?"
"Because I had rather die than be known, except to you."
"You leave me out."
"I'd trust you to the end of everything, Riley."
"I b'lieve you would, Jig--I honest believe you would! Heaven knowswhy."
"Because."
"That ain't a reason."
"A very good woman's reason. For one thing you've let me come alongwhen you know that I'm a weight, and you're in danger. But you don'tknow what it means if I go back. You can't know. I know it's wrong andcowardly for me to stay and imperil you, but I _am_ a coward, and I'mafraid to go back!"
"Hush up," murmured Sinclair. "Hush up, girl. Is they anybody askingyou to go back? But you don't really figure on hanging out here with mein the mountains, me having most of the gents in these parts outlooking for my scalp?"
"If you think I won't be such an encumbrance that I'll greatly endangeryou, Riley."
"H'm," muttered Sinclair. "I'll take that chance, but they's anotherthing."
"Well?"
"It ain't exactly nacheral and reasonable for a girl to go around inthe mountains with a man."
She fired up at that, sitting straight, with the fire flaring suddenlyin her face through the change of position.
"I've told you that I trust you, Riley. What do I care about theopinion of the world? Haven't they hounded me? Oh, I despise them!"
"H'm," said the cowpuncher again.
He was, indeed, so abashed by this outbreak that he merely stole aglance at her face and then studied the fire again.
"Does this gent Cartwright tie up with your story?"
All the fire left her. "Yes," she whispered.
He felt that she was searching his face, as if suddenly in doubt ofhim.
"Will you let me tell you--everything?"
"Shoot ahead."
"Some parts will be hard to believe."
"Lady, they won't be nothing as hard to believe as what I've seen youdo with my own eyes."
Then she began to tell her story, and she found a vast comfort inseeing the ugly, stern face of Sinclair lighted by the burning end ofhis cigarette. He never looked at her, but always fixed his stare onthe sea of blackness which was the lower valley.
"All the trouble began with a theory. My father felt that the thing fora girl was to be educated in the East and marry in the West. He wasfull of maxims, you see. 'They turn out knowledge in cities; they turnout men in mountains,' was one of his maxims. He thought and argued andlived along those lines. So as soon as I was half grown--oh, I was awild tomboy!"
"Eh?" cut in Sinclair.
"I could really do the things then that you'd like to have a woman do,"she said. "I could ride anything, swim like a fish in snow water,climb, run, and do anything a boy could do. I suppose that's the sortof a woman you admire?"
"Me!" exclaimed Riley with violence. "It ain't so, Jig. I been revisingmy ideas on women lately. Besides, I never give 'em much thoughtbefore."
He said all this without glancing at her, so that she was able toindulge in a smile before she went on.
"Just at that point, when I was about to become a true daughter of theWest, Dad snapped me off to school in the East, and then for years andyears there was no West at all for me except a little trip here andthere in vacation time. The rest of it was just study and play, all inthe East. I still liked the West--in theory, you know."
"H'm," muttered Riley.
"And then, I think it was a year ago, I had a letter from Dad withimportant news in it. He had just come back from a hunting trip with ayoung fellow who he thought represented everything fine in the West. Hewas big, good-looking, steady, had a large estate. Dad set his mind onhaving me marry him, and he told me so in the letter. Of course I wasupset at the idea of marrying a man I did not know, but Dad always hada very controlling way with him. I had lost any habit of thinking formyself in important matters.
"Besides, there was a consolation. Dad sent the picture of his manalong with his letter. The picture was in profile, and it showed me afine-looking fellow, with a glorious carriage, a high head, and oceansof strength and manliness.
"I really fell in love with that picture. To begin with, I thought thatit was destiny for me, and that I had to love that man whether I wishedto or not. I admitted that picture into my inmost life, dreamed aboutit, kept it near me in my room.
"And just about that time came news that my father was seriously ill,and then that he had died, and that his last wish was for me to comeWest at once and marry my chosen husband.
"Of course I came at once. I was too sick and sad for Dad to think muchabout my own future, and when I stepped off the train I met the firstshock. My husband to be was waiting for me. He was enough like thepicture for me to recognize him, and that was all. He was tall andstrong enough and manly enough. But in full face I thought he wasnarrow between the eyes. And
"It was Cartwright!"
"Yes, yes. How did you guess that?"
"I dunno," said Sinclair softly, "but when that gent rode off today,something told me that I was going to tangle with him later on. Go on!"
"He was very kind to me. After the first moment of disappointment--yousee, I had been dreaming about him for a good many weeks--I grew tolike him and accept him again. He did all that he could to make thetrip home agreeable. He didn't press himself on me. He did nothing tomake me feel that he understood Dad's wishes about our marriage andexpected me to live up to them.
"After the funeral it was the same way. He came to see me only now andthen. He was courteous and attentive, and he seemed to be fond of me."
"A fox," snarled Sinclair, growing more and more excited, as thisnarrative continued. "That's the way with one of them kind. They play agame. Never out in the open. Waiting till they win, and then acting thedevil. Go on!"
"Perhaps you're right. His visits became more and more frequent.Finally he asked me to marry him. That brought the truth of my positionhome to me, and I found all at once that, though I had rather liked himas a friend, I had to quake at the idea of him as a husband."
Sinclair snapped his cigarette into the coals of the fire and set hisjaw. She liked him in his anger.
"But what could I do? All of the last part of Dad's life had beenpointed toward this one thing. I felt that he would come out of hisgrave and haunt me. I asked for one more day to think it over. He toldme to take a month or a year, as I pleased, and that made me ashamed. Itold him on the spot that I would marry him, but that I didn't lovehim."
"I'll tell you what he answered--curse him!" exclaimed Sinclair.
"What?"
"Through the years that was comin', he'd teach you to love him."
"That was exactly what he said in those very words! How did you guessthat?"
"I'll tell you I got a sort of a second sight for the ways of a snake,or an ornery hoss, or a sneak of a man. Go on!"
"I think you have. At any rate, after I had told him I'd marry him, hepressed me to set the date as early as possible, and I agreed. Therewas only a ten-day interval.
"Those ten days were filled. I kept myself busy so that I wouldn't havea chance to think about the future, though of course I didn't reallyknow how I dreaded it. I talked to the only girl who was near enough tome to be called a friend.
"'Find a man you can respect. That's the main thing,' she always said.'You'll learn to love him later on.'
"It was a great comfort to me. I kept thinking back to that advice allthe time."
"They's nothing worse than a talky woman," declared Sinclair hotly. "Goon!"
"Then, all at once, the day came. I'll never forget how I wakened thatmorning and looked out at the sun. I had a queer feeling that even thesunshine would never seem the same after that day. It was like going toa death."
"So you went to this gent and told him just how you felt, and he letyour promise slide?"
"No."
Sinclair groaned.
"I couldn't go to him. I didn't dare. I don't imagine that I everthought of such a thing. Then there were crowds of people around allday, giving me good wishes. And all the time I felt like death.
"Somehow I got to the church. Everything was hazy to me, and my heartwas thundering all the time. In the church there was a blur of faces.All at once the blur cleared. I saw Jude Cartwright, and I knew Icouldn't marry him!"
"Brave girl!" cried Sinclair, his relief coming out in almost a shout."You stopped there at the last minute?"
"Ah, if I had! No, I didn't stop. I went on to the altar and met himthere, and--"
"You weren't married to him?"
"I was!"
"Go on," Sinclair said huskily.
"The end of it came somehow. I found a flood of people calling to meand pressing around me, and all the time I was thinking of nothing butthe new ring on my finger and the weight--the horrible weight of it!
"We went back to my father's house. I managed to get away from all themerrymaking and go to my room. The minute the door closed behind me andshut away their voices and singing into the distance, I felt that I hadsaved one last minute of freedom. I went to the window and looked outat the mountains. The stars were coming out.
"All at once my knees gave way, and I began to weep on the window sill.I heard voices coming, and I knew that I mustn't let them see me withthe tears running down my face. But the tears wouldn't stop coming.
"I ran to the door and locked it. Then someone tried to open the door,and I heard the voice of my Aunt Jane calling. I gathered all my nerveand made my voice steady. I told her that I couldn't let anyone in,that I was preparing a surprise for them.
"'Are you happy, dear?' asked Aunt Jane.
"I made myself laugh. 'So happy!' I called back to her.
"Then they went away. But as soon as they were gone I knew that I couldnever go out and meet them. Partly because I had no surprise for them,partly because I didn't want them to see the tear stains and my redeyes. Somehow little silly things were as big and as important as themain thing--that I could never be the real wife of Jude Cartwright. Canyou understand?"
"Jig, once when I had a deer under my trigger I let him go because hehad a funny-shaped horn. Sure, it's the little things that run a gent'slife. Go on!"
"I knew that I had to escape. But how could I escape in a place whereeverybody knew me? First I thought of changing my clothes. Then anotherthing--man's clothes! The moment that idea came, I was sure it was thething. I opened the door very softly. There was no one upstairs justthen. I ran into my cousin's room--he's a youngster of fifteen--andsnatched the first boots and clothes that I could find and rushed backto my own room.
"I jumped into them, hardly knowing what I was doing. For they werebeginning to call to me from downstairs. I opened the door and calledback to them, and I heard Jude Cartwright answer in a big voice.
"I turned around and saw myself in the mirror in boy's clothes, with myface as white as a sheet, my eyes staring, my hair pouring down over myshoulders. I ran to the bureau and found a scissors. Then I hesitated amoment. You don't dream how hard it was to do. My hair was long, yousee, below my waist. And I had always been proud of it.
"But I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth and cut it off with greatslashes, close to my head. Then I stood with all that mass of hairshining in my hand and a queer, light feeling in my head.
"But I felt that I was free. I clamped on my cousin's hat--how queer itfelt with all that hair cut off! I bundled the hair into my pocket,because they mustn't dream what I had done. Then someone beat on thedoor.
"'Coming!' I called to them.
"I ran to the window. The house was built on a slope, and it was not avery long drop to the ground, I suppose. But to me it seemedneck-breaking, that distance. It was dark, and I climbed out and hungby my hands, but I couldn't find courage to let go. Then I tried toclimb back, but there wasn't any strength in my arms.
"I cried out for help, but the singing downstairs must have muffled thesound. My fingers grew numb--they slipped on the sill--and then I fell.
"The fall stunned me, I guess, for a moment. When I opened my eyes, Isaw the stars and knew that I was free. I started up then and struckstraight across country. At first I didn't care where I went, so longas it was away, but when I got over the first hill I made up a plan.That was to go for the railroad and take a train. I did it.
"There was a long walk ahead of me before I reached the station, andwith my cousin's big boots wobbling on my feet I was very tired when Ireached it. There were some freight cars on the siding, and there washay on the floor of one of them. I crawled into the open door and wentto sleep.
"After a while I woke up with a great jarring and jolting and noise. Ifound the car pitch dark. The door was closed, and pretty soon, by theroar of the wheels under me and the swing of the floor of the car, Iknew that an engine had picked up the empty cars.
"It was a terrible time for me.
"The man who saw me only laughed. I suppose he could have arrested me.
"'All right, kid, but you're hitting the road early in life, eh!'
"Those were the first words that were spoken to me as a man.
"I didn't know where I should go, but the train had taken me south, andthat made me remember a town where my father had lived for a longtime--Sour Creek. I started to get to this place.
"The hardest thing I had to do was the very first thing, and that wasto take my ragged head of hair into a barber shop and get it trimmed. Iwas sure that the barber would know I was a girl, but he didn'tsuspect.
"'Been a long time in the wilds, youngster, eh?' was all he said.
"And then I knew that I was safe, because people here in the West arenot suspicious. They let a stranger go with one look. By the time Ireached Sour Creek I was nearly over being ashamed of my clothes. Andthen I found this place and work as a schoolteacher. I think you knowthe rest." She leaned close to Sinclair. "Was I wrong to leave him?"
Sinclair rubbed his chin. "You'd ought to have told him straight off,"he said firmly. "But seeing you went through with the wedding--well,take it all in all, your leaving of him was about the rightest thing Iever heard of."
Quiet fell between them.
"But what am I going to do? And where is it all going to end?" a smallvoice inquired of Sinclair at last.
"Roll up in them blankets and go to sleep," he advised her curtly. "I'mfiguring steady on this here thing, Jig."
Jig followed that advice. Sinclair had left the fire and was walking upand down from one end of the little plateau to the other, with astrong, long step. As for the girl, she felt that an incalculableburden had been shifted from her shoulders by the telling of this tale.That burden, she knew, must have fallen on another person, and it wasnot unpleasant to know that Riley Sinclair was the man.
Gradually the sense of strangeness faded. As she grew drowsy, it seemedthe most natural thing in the world for her to be up here at the top ofthe world with a man she had; known two days. And, before she slept,the last thing of which she was conscious was the head of Sinclair inthe broad sombrero, brushing to and fro across the stars.