The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Page 4

  CHAPTER IV

  TWO MEN OF THE WILDERNESS

  The westering sun was drooping heavily toward its fiery couch. Thepurple of evening was deepening from the east, meeting and blendingsoftly with the gold of the dying day. A great furnace of ruddy cloudrose above the mountain-tops, lighting the eternal snows of the peaksand ancient glaciers with a wealth of kaleidoscopic color. Viewed fromthe plains below there might have been a great fire raging among thehill-caps, where only snow and ice could provide the fuel.

  The radiant colors of sunset held the quiet eyes of a solitaryhorseman riding amidst the broken lands of the lesser foot-hills. Hewas a big man, of powerful shoulders and stout limbs. He was a man offifty or thereabouts, yet his hair was snow white, a perfect mane thatreached low upon his neck, touching the soft collar of his cottonshirt. His face was calm with something of the peace of the worldthrough which he was riding, something of the peace which comes tothose who have abandoned forever the strife of the busy life beyond.It only needed the garb of the priest, and his appearance would havematched perfectly his sobriquet, "the Padre."

  But Moreton Kenyon was clad in the rough moleskin, the riding bootsand general make-up of the western life to which he belonged. Even hecarried the protecting firearms by which to administer the personallaws of the wilderness. His whole appearance, the very horse underhim, a prairie-bred broncho of excellent blood, suggested a man whoknew the life amidst which he lived, and was more than capable ofsurviving it.

  Whatever his appearance, whatever his capacity for the rougher cornersof earth, Moreton Kenyon was a man of great kindliness, of greatsympathy, as the mission from which he was now returning might wellhave testified. Those who knew him best held him in deep affection.Those who knew him less withheld their judgment, but never failed totreat him with a courtesy not usual amongst the derelicts of anout-world camp.

  Just now something of the smallness of human life, of human aims andefforts, of human emotions, was occupying the busy brain behind hisreflective eyes. The scene before him, upon which he had so oftenlooked, never failed to remind him of the greatness of that which laybeyond the ken of man. Somehow it exalted his thoughts to planes towhich no association with his kind could ever have exalted them. Itnever failed to inspire him with a reverence for the infinity of powerwhich crowned the glory of creation, and reduced self to a humblerealization of its atomic place in the great scheme of the Creator.

  His horse ambled easily over the ribbon-like trail, which seemed torise out of the eastern horizon from nowhere, and lose itselfsomewhere ahead, amidst the dark masses of forest-crowned hills. Thejourney was nearly over. Somewhere ahead lay the stable, which couldbe reached at leisure in the cool of the evening, and neither masternor beast seemed to feel the need for undue haste.

  As the light slowly faded out and left the snow-white hill-crests drabwith the gray of twilight, the man's mind reverted to those thingswhich had sent him on his journey. Many doubts had assailed him by theway, doubts which set him debating with himself, but which rarely madehim turn from a purpose his mind was once set upon. He knew that hisaction involved more than his own personal welfare, and herein hadlain the source of his doubt. But he had clearly argued every pointwith himself, and through it all had felt the rightness of hispurpose.

  Then, too, he had had the support of that other with whom he wasconcerned. And he smiled as he thought of the night when his decisionhad been taken. Even now the picture remained in his mind of the eagerface of his youthful protege as they discussed the matter. The youngerman had urged vehemently, protesting at every objection, that they twohad no right to live in comparative comfort with women and childrenstarving about them.

  He remembered young Buck's eager eyes, large dark-brown eyes thatcould light with sudden, almost volcanic heat, or smile their soft,lazy smile of amusement at the quaintnesses of life about him. ThePadre understood the largeness of heart, the courage which urged him,the singleness of purpose which was always his. Then, when theirdecision had been taken, he remembered the abrupt falling back of theman into the quiet, almost monosyllabic manner which usually belongedto him.

  Yes, Buck was a good lad.

  The thought carried him back to days long gone by, to a time when alad of something less than eight years, clad in the stained and worngarb of a prairie juvenile, his feet torn and bleeding, his largebrown eyes staring out of gaunt, hungry sockets, his thin, pinched,sunburnt face drawn by the ravages of starvation, had cheerfullyhailed him from beneath the shelter of a trail-side bush.

  That was nearly twenty years ago, but every detail of the meeting wasstill fresh in his memory. His horse had shied at the suddenchallenge. He remembered he had thrashed the creature with his spurs.And promptly had come the youthful protest.

  "Say, you needn't to lick him, mister," the boy piped in his thintreble. "Guess he'll stand if you talk to him."

  Strangely enough the man had almost unconsciously obeyed the mandate.And the memory of it made him smile now. Then had followed a dialogue,which even now had power to stir every sympathy of his heart. Hestarted by casually questioning the starving apparition.

  "Where you from, sonny?" he asked.

  And with that unequivocal directness, which, after twenty years, stillremained with him, the boy flung out a thin arm in the direction ofthe eastern horizon.

  "Back ther', mister."

  The natural sequence was to ask him whither he was bound, and hisanswer came with a similar gesture with his other hand westward.

  "Yonder."

  "But--but who're your folks? Where are they?" the Padre had nexthazarded. And a world of desolation was contained in the lad'shalf-tearful reply--

  "Guess I ain't got none. Pop an' ma's dead. Our farm was burnt rightout. Y' see there was a prairie fire. It was at night, an' we wasabed. Pop got me out, an' went back for ma. I never see him agin. Inever see ma. An' ther' wa'an't no farm left. Guess they're suredead."

  He fought the tears back manfully, in a way that set the Padremarveling at his courage.

  After a moment he continued his interrogation.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  "Buck," came the frank response.

  "Buck--what?"

  "Buck--jest plain, mister."

  "But your father's name--what was that?"

  "Pop."

  "Yes, yes. That's what you called him. What did the folks call him?"

  "Ther' wa'an't no folks. Jest pop, an' ma, an' me."

  A great lump had risen in the man's throat as he looked down intothose honest, hungry eyes. And for a moment he was at a loss. But theboy solved his dilemma in a way that proved the man in after-life.

  "Say, you ain't a farmer?" he inquired, with a speculative glance overhis general outfit.

  "Well, I am--in a small way," the Padre had replied, with ahalf-smile.

  The boy brightened at once.

  "Then mebbe you can give me a job--I'm lookin' for a job."

  The wonder of it all brought a great smile of sympathy to theman's eyes now, as he thought of that little starving lad of eightyears old, homeless, wandering amidst the vastness of all thatworld--looking for a "job." It was stupendous, and he had satmarveling until the lad brought him back to the business in hand.

  "Y' see I kin milk--an'--an' do chores around. Guess I can't ploughyet. Pop allus said I was too little. But mebbe I kin grow--later.I--I don't want no wages--on'y food. Guess I'm kind o' hungry,mister."

  Nor, for a moment, could the man make any reply. The pathos of it allheld him in its grip. He leant over and groped in his saddle-bag forthe "hardtack" biscuits he always carried, and passed the lad ahandful.

  He remembered how the boy snatched the rough food from his hands.There was something almost animal in the way he crammed his mouthfull, and nearly choked himself in his efforts to appease the cravingof his small, empty stomach. In those moments the man's mind was madeup. He watched in silence while the biscuit vanished. Then he carriedout his purpose.

  "You can ha
ve a job," he said. "I've only a small farm, but you cancome and help me with it."

  "Do you mean that, mister?" the boy asked, almost incredulously.

  Then, as the Padre had nodded, a sigh of thankfulness escaped theyoung lips, which were still covered with the crumbs of his recentmeal.

  "Say, I'm glad. Y' see I was gettin' tired. An' ther' didn't seem tobe no farms around--nor nuthin'. An' it's lonesome, too, at nights,lyin' around."

  The man's heart ached. He could stand no more of it.

  "How long have you been sleeping--out?"

  "Three nights, mister."

  Suddenly the Padre reached out a hand.

  "Here, catch hold, and jump."

  The boy caught the strong hand, and was promptly swung up into thesaddle behind his benefactor. The next moment they were speeding backover the trail to the lad's new home. Nor was the new-born hope solelybeating in the starving child's heart. The lonely farmer felt thatsomehow the day was brighter, and the green earth more beautiful--forthat meeting.

  Such had been the coming together of these two, and through all thelong years of weary toil since then they still remained together,working shoulder to shoulder in a relationship that soon becamesomething like that of father and son. The Padre remained thefarmer--in a small way. But the boy--well, as had been prophesied byhis dead father, later on he grew big enough to plough the furrows oflife with a strong and sure hand.

  The man's reflections were broken into abruptly. The time and distancehad passed more rapidly than he was aware of. The eager animal underhim raised its head, and, pricking its small ears and pulling heavilyon the reins, increased its pace to a gallop. Then it was that thePadre became suddenly aware that the home stretch had been reached,and before him lay a long, straight decline in the trail which split adense pine-wood bluff of considerable extent.

  * * * * *

  A man was lounging astride of a fallen pine log. His lean shoulderswere propped against the parent stump. All about him were other stumpsleft by those who had made the clearing in the woods. Beyond this theshadowy deep of the woods ranged on every side, except where the redsand of a trail broke the monotony of tone.

  Near by two horses stood tethered together by a leading rein. One wasa saddle-horse, and the other was equipped with a well-loadedpack-saddle. It was no mean burden of provisions. The carcass of alarge, black-tailed deer sprawled across the back of the saddle, whileon one side were secured three bags of flour, and on the otherseveral jack-rabbits were strung together. But the powerful beastremained unconcernedly nibbling at the sparse green peeping here andthere through the carpet of rotting pine cones and needles whichcovered the ground.

  The man's eyes were half-closed, yet he was by no means drowsing. Onthe contrary, his mind was essentially busy, and the occasionalpuckering of his dark brows, and the tightening of his strong jaws,suggested that his thoughts were not always pleasant.

  After a while he sat up. But his movement was only the restlessnesscaused by the worry of his thought. And the gaze he turned upon hisforaging horses was quite preoccupied.

  A change, however, was not long in coming. Simultaneously both horsesthrew up their heads, and one of them gave a sharp, comprehensivesnort. Instantly the man's large brown eyes lit, and a pleasantexpectancy shone in their depths. He was on his feet in an instant,and his tall figure became alert and vibrant with the lithe activitywhich was so wonderfully displayed in his whole poise. He, too, hadbecome aware of a disturbing element in the silent depths of thewoods.

  He moved across to the trail, and, glancing down it, from out of thesilence reached him the distant, soft plod of hoofs in its heavycovering of sand. His look of satisfaction deepened as he turned backto his horses and tightened the cinchas of the saddles, and replacedthe bits in their mouths. Then he picked up the Winchester riflepropped against a tree stump and turned again to the trail.

  A moment later another horseman appeared from beyond the fringe ofpines and drew up with an exclamation.

  "Why, Buck, I didn't reckon to find you around here!" he criedcordially.

  "No." The young man smiled quietly up into the horseman's face. Thewelcome of his look was unmistakable. No words of his could haveexpressed it better.

  The Padre sprang from his saddle with the lightness of a man of halfhis years, and his eyes rested on the pack-saddle on Buck's secondhorse.

  "For the--folks?" he inquired.

  "Guess so. That's the last of the flour."

  For a moment a shadow passed across the Padre's face. Then it assuddenly brightened.

  "How's things?" he demanded, in the stereotyped fashion of men whogreet when matters of importance must be discussed between them.

  "So," responded Buck.

  The Padre glanced quickly round, and his eyes fell on the log whichhad provided the other with a seat.

  "Guess there's no hurry. Let's sit," he said, indicating the log. "I'ma bit saddle weary."

  Buck nodded.

  They left the horses to their own devices, and moved across to thelog.

  "Quite a piece to Leeson Butte," observed Buck casually, as he droppedupon the log beside his friend.

  "It surely is," replied the Padre, taking the young man in with aquick, sidelong glance.

  Buck was good to look at, so strong, so calmly reliant. Every glanceof his big brown eyes suggested latent power. He was not strikinglyhandsome, but the pronounced nose, the level, wide brows, the firmmouth and clean-shaven chin, lifted him far out of the common. He wasclad simply. But his dress was perfectly suitable to the life of thefarmer-hunter which was his. His white moleskin trousers were tuckedinto the tops of his Wellington boots, and a cartridge belt, fromwhich hung a revolver and holster, was slung about his waist. Hisupper covering was a simple, gray flannel shirt, gaping wide openacross his sunburnt chest, and his modest-hued silk handkerchief tiedloosely about his neck.

  "Leeson Butte's getting quite a city," Buck went on presently.

  "That's so," replied the Padre, still bent upon his own thoughts.

  After that it was quite a minute before either spoke. Yet there seemedto be no awkwardness.

  Finally it was the Padre who broached the matters that lay betweenthem.

  "I got ten thousand dollars for it!" he said.

  "The farm?" Buck's interrogation was purely mechanical. He knew wellenough that the other had purposely gone to Leeson Butte to sell thefarm on which they had both lived so long.

  The Padre nodded.

  "A fancy price," he said. "The lawyers closed quick. It was a womanbought it. I didn't see her, though she was stopping at the hotel. Ifigured on getting seven thousand five hundred dollars, and only askedten thousand dollars as a start. Guess the woman must have wanted itbad. Maybe she's heard they're prospecting gold around. Well, anywayshe ought to get some luck with it, she's made it easy for us to helpthe folks."

  Buck's eyes were steadily fixed on the horses.

  "It makes me feel bad seeing those fellers chasin' gold, and never acolor to show--an' all the while their womenfolk an' kiddies that thinfor food you can most see their shadows through 'em."

  The eyes of the elder man brightened. The other's words had helped tohearten him. He had felt keenly the parting with his farm after allthose years of labor and association. Yet, to a mind such as his, ithad been impossible to do otherwise. How could he stand by watching asmall community, such as he was surrounded with, however misguided intheir search for gold, painfully and doggedly starving before his veryeyes? For the men perhaps his sympathy might have been less keen, butthe poor, long-suffering women and the helpless children--the thoughtwas too painful. No, he and Buck had but their two selves to think of.They had powerful hands with which to help themselves. Those otherswere helpless--the women and children.

  There was compensation in his sacrifice when he remembered the largeorders for edible stores he had placed with the merchants of LeesonButte before leaving that town.

  "There's a heap of foo
d coming along for them presently," he saidafter a pause.

  Buck nodded.

  "I've been settin' that old fur fort to rights, way up in the hillsback ther'," he said, pointing vaguely behind them. "Guess we'd bestmove up ther' now the farm's--sold. We'll need a few bits of furniturefrom the farm. That right--now you've sold it?"

  "Yes. I made that arrangement. She didn't seem to mind anything Isuggested. She must be a bully sort of woman. I'm sorry I didn't seeher. The lawyer says she comes from St. Ellis."

  "Young?" suggested Buck.

  The Padre shook his head.

  "I wouldn't say so. A young woman with money wouldn't be likely tohide herself in these hills."

  "That's so. Guess it's the gold fetching her--the gold that isn'there."

  "Gold's a cursed thing," said the Padre reflectively.

  "Yet none of 'em seem to shy at the curse." Buck smiled in his slowway.

  "No. Not without experiencing it." The Padre's eyes were stillserious. Then he went on, "We shan't farm any up there--at the furfort?"

  Buck shook his head.

  "It means clearing every inch of land we need. Guess we best hunt, aswe said. We'll make out with pelts. There's the whole mountains fortraps."

  The other stared over at the horses, and his face was very grave.After a while he turned directly to his companion, and his eyes weremildly anxious.

  "See here, Buck," he said, with what seemed unnecessary emphasis."I've thought a heap on the way back--home. It seems to me I'm notacting square by you. And I've made up my mind." He paused. Buck didnot change his position, and his eyes were carefully avoiding those ofhis companion. Then the Padre went on with a decision that somehowlacked confidence. "You must take half the money, and--and get busyyour own way. We've done farming, so there's no reason for you to hangaround here. You're a man now, and you've your way to make in theworld. You see, when we had the farm I thought it was good for you.It would be yours when I died, and then who knows, in time, howvaluable it might become? Now it's all different. You see the hillsare best for me." He smiled strainedly. "They've always been goodfriends to me. But----"

  "Yes, you don't fancy leavin' the hills." Buck's eyes wore a curiousexpression. They were half-smiling, half-angry. But the other couldnot see them. The Padre jumped eagerly at his words.

  "Just so. I've known them so long now that there doesn't seem to beany other world for me. Even Leeson Butte makes me feel--er--strange."

  Buck nodded. Then he changed the subject.

  "Say, we don't sleep at the farm to-night," he said. "The blankets areup at the old fort. That's why I got around here. When's she comin'along?"

  "In two or three days." The Padre had no choice but to follow theyounger man's lead. "She's sending along a farm woman first. She'sgoing to run the place herself."

  "Ther's no man comin'?" Buck half turned to his friend.

  "I don't think so."

  "They can't do it--hereabouts," Buck retorted quickly. "That farmneeds a man."

  "Yes."

  Buck rose abruptly and went over to the horses.

  "Going?" inquired the Padre.

  "I'll get along with the vittles, and hand 'em over to the boys. GuessI'll git back to the fort in a few hours."

  The Padre sat hesitating. He watched the movements of his companionwithout observing them.

  "Buck!"

  The other paused as he was about to put his foot into the stirrup. Heglanced over his shoulder.

  "Yes?"

  "About that money. There's five thousand of it yours."

  "Not on your life, Padre!"

  The elder man sighed as he stood up, and his look changed so that italmost seemed as if a weight had been lifted from his mind. Their eyesmet as Buck swung himself into the saddle.

  "Then we're going to the hills--together?" he said smilingly.

  "Sure," responded Buck promptly. Then he added, "But we're goin' tohunt--not farm."

  His decisive manner left no room for doubt, and the Padre, moving overto him, held out his hand. They gripped till the elder man winced.

  "I'm glad I found you on the trail that time," he said, lookingsquarely into the steady brown eyes. "I've always been glad, but--I'mgladder still now."

  "Me, too," said Buck, with a light laugh. "Guess I'd have hated to ha'fed the coyotes."

  Buck swung round to the trail, leading his packhorse, and the Padrewent back to his horse. Just as he was about to mount the youngerman's voice reached him again. He paused.

  "Say, what's the woman's name?" Buck inquired.

  "Eh?" The Padre looked startled. "The woman that bought the farm?"

  "Yes--sure."

  The elder man's face flushed painfully. It was a curious sight. Helooked as stupidly guilty as any schoolboy.

  "I--I can't say. I never asked." He felt absurdly foolish and tried toexplain. "You see, I only dealt with the lawyer."

  Buck shook his head, and smiled in his slow fashion.

  "Sold the farm, an' don't know who to! Gee!"

  It was good to hear his laugh as he rode away. The Padre watched himtill he was out of sight.