CHAPTER X
THE STORM
Will Corliss, riding through the timberlands toward the west, shiveredas a drop of rain touched his hand. He glanced up through the trees.The sky seemed clouded to the level of the pine-tops. He spurred hishorse as he again felt a spatter of rain. Before him lay several milesof rugged trail leading to an open stretch across which he would againenter the timber on the edge of the hollow where Soper's cabin wasconcealed. When Corliss had suggested Soper's place as a rendezvous,Fadeaway had laughed to himself, knowing that old man Soper had beendriven from the country by a committee of irate ranchers. The illicitsale of whiskey to the cowboys of the Concho Valley had been the causeof Soper's hurried evacuation. The cabin had been burned to theground. Fadeaway knew that without Soper's assistance Corliss would beunable to get to the railroad--would be obliged either to return to theConcho or starve on the empty mesas.
Corliss bent his head as the rain drove faster. When he arrived at theedge of the mesa, the storm had increased to a steady dull roar ofrushing rain. He hesitated to face the open and reined up beneath aspruce. He was drenched and shivered. The fever of drink had died outleaving him unstrung and strangely fearful of the night. His horsestood with lowered head, its storm-blown mane whipping in the wind likea wet cloth. A branch riven from a giant pine crashed down behind him.Corliss jerked upright in the saddle, and the horse, obeying theaccidental touch of the spurs, plodded out to the mesa with head heldsideways.
The rider's hands grew numb and he dropped the reins over the horn andshoved his hands in his pockets. Unaccustomed to riding he grew wearyand, despite the storm, he drowsed, to awaken with a start as gusts ofwind swept against his face. He raised his dripping hat and shook thewater from it. Then he crouched shivering in the saddle. He cursedhimself for a fool and longed for shelter and the warmth of a fire.Slowly a feeling of helplessness stole over him and he pictured himselfreturning to the Concho and asking forgiveness of his brother. Yet hekept stubbornly on, glancing ahead from time to time until at last hesaw the dim edge of the distant timber--a black line against thedarkness. He urged his horse to a trot, and was all but thrown as theanimal suddenly avoided a prairie-dog hole. The sweep of the storm wasbroken as he entered the farther timber. Then came the muffled roll ofthunder and an instant white flash. The horse reared as a bolt strucka pine. Came the ghastly whistle of flying splinters as the tree wasshattered. Corliss grabbed the saddle-horn as the horse bolted throughthe timberlands, working against the curb to reach the open. Once moreon the trail the animal quieted. They topped a gentle rise. Corlissbreathed his relief. Soper's cabin was in the hollow below them.
Cautiously the horse worked sideways down the ridge, slipping andchecking short as the loose stones slithered beneath his feet. At thebottom of the hollow Corliss reined up and shouted. The wind whippedhis call to a thin shred of sound that was swept away in the roar ofthe storm. Again he shouted. As though in answer there came a burningflash of blue. The dripping trees surrounding the hollow jumped intoview to be blotted from sight as the succeeding crash of thunderdiminished to far titanic echoes. Where Soper's cabin had stood therewas a wet, glistening heap of fallen logs and rafters, charred andtwisted. The lightning flash had revealed more to the rider than thedesolation of the burned and abandoned homestead. He saw with instantvividness the wrecked framework of his own plans. He heard the echo ofFadeaway's sneering laugh in the fury of the wind. He told himselfthat he had been duped and that he deserved it. Lacking physicalstrength to carry him through to a place of tentative safety, he gaveup, and credited his sudden regret to true repentance rather than toweakness. He would return to the Concho, knowing that his brotherwould forgive him. He wept as he thought of his attitude of therepentant and broken son returning in sorrow to atone for his sin andshame. He magnified his wrongdoing to heroic proportions endeavoringto filch some sentimental comfort from the romantic. He it was thatneeded the sympathy of the world and not his brother John; John was aplodder, a clod, good enough, but incapable of emotion, or the finerfeelings. And Eleanor Loring . . . she could have saved him from allthis. He had begun well; had written acceptable verse . . . then hadcome her refusal to marry him. What a fool he had been through it all!The wind and rain chastised his emotional intoxication, and he turnedshivering to look for shelter. Dismounting, he crept beneath a lowspruce and shivered beneath the scant covering of his saddle-blanket.To-morrow the sun would shine on a new world. He would arise andconquer his temptation. As he drifted to troubled sleep he knew, deepin his heart, that despite his heroics he would at that moment havegiven the little canvas sack of his brother's money for theobliterating warmth of intoxication.
With the morning sun he rose and saddled. About to mount, hisstiffened muscles blundered. He slipped and fell. The horse, keenwith hunger, jumped away from him and trotted down the trail. Hefollowed shouting. His strength gave out and he gave up the chase,wondering where the horse would go. Stumbling along the slipperytrail, he cursed his clumsiness. A chill sweat gathered on his face.His legs trembled and he was forced to rest frequently. Crossing astream, he stooped and drank. Then he toiled on, eagerly scanning thehoof-prints in the rain-gutted trail.
The sun was high when he arrived at the wagon-road above the Concho.Dazed and weak, he endeavored to determine which direction the horsehad taken. The heat of the sun oppressed him. He became faint, and,crawling beneath the shade of a wayside fir, he rested, promisinghimself that he would, when the afternoon shadows drifted across theroad, make his way to the Concho. He had slept little more than anhour when the swift patter of hoofs wakened him. As he got to hisfeet, a buckboard, drawn by a pair of pinto range-ponies, drew up.Corliss started back. The Mexican driving the ponies turned toward thesweet-faced Spanish woman beside him as though questioning herpleasure. She spoke in quick, low accents. He cramped the wagon andshe stepped to the road. The Senora Loring, albeit having knowledge ofhis recent return to Antelope, his drinking, and all the unsavoryrumors connected with his return, greeted Corliss as a mother greets awayward son. She set all this knowledge aside and spoke to him withthe placid wisdom of her years and nature. Her gentle solicitudetouched him. She had been his foster-mother in those years that he andhis brother had known no other fostering hand than that of old HiWingle, the cook, whose efforts to "raise" the Corliss boys were morelargely faithful than discriminating.
Senora Loring knew at a glance that he was in trouble of some kind.She asked no questions, but held out her hands.
Corliss, blind with tears, dropped to his knee: "Madre! Madre!" hecried.
She patted his head. "You come with me. Then perhaps you have to sayto me that which now you do not say."
He shook his head, but she paid no attention, leading the way to thebuckboard. He climbed beside the driver, then with an ejaculation ofapology, leaped to the road and helped her in.
"Where you would like to go?" she asked. "The Concho?"
Again he shook his head. "I can't. I--"
She questioned his hesitation with her eyes.
"I'll tell you when--when I feel better. Madre, I'm sick."
"I know," she said.
Then, turning to the driver, she gestured down the wagon-trail.
They drove through the morning woodlands, swung to the east, andcrossed the ford. The clustered adobes of the Loring homesteadglimmered in the sun. Corliss glanced across the river toward theConcho. Again the Senora Loring questioned him with a glance.
He shook his head. "Away--anywhere," he said, gesturing toward thehorizon.
"You come home with me," she said quietly. "Nellie is not at the hometo-day. You rest, and then perhaps you go to the Concho."
As they entered the gateway of the Loring rancho, Corliss made asthough to dismount. The Senora Loring touched his arm. He shruggedhis shoulders; then gazed ahead at the peaceful habitation of the oldsheep-herder.
The Senora told the driver to tie the team and wai
t. Then she enteredthe house. Corliss gazed about the familiar room while she madecoffee. Half starved, he ate ravenously the meal she prepared for him.Later, when she came and sat opposite, her plump hands folded in herlap, her whole attitude restful and assuring, he told her of therobbery, concealing nothing save the name of Fadeaway.
Then he drew the canvas sack from his pocket. "I thought I could goback and face it out, but now, I can't. Will you--return it--and--tellJohn?"
She nodded. "Si! If you wish it so, my son. You would not do that asI would tell you--so I say nothing. I can only--what you say--help,with my hands," and she gestured gracefully as though leading a child."You have money to go away?"
"No, madre."
"Then I give you the money." And the Senora, ignoring his half-heartedprotests, stepped to an adjoining room and returned. "Here is this tohelp you go. Some day you come back strong and like your father thebig John Corliss. Then I shall be much glad."
"I'll pay it back. I'll do anything--"
But she silenced him, touching his lips with her fingers. "No. Thepromise to make is not so hard, but to keep . . . Ah! When you comeback, then you promise; si?"
Not a word of reproof, not a glance or a look of disapproval, yetCorliss knew that the Senora's heart was heavy with sorrow for him. Hestrode to the doorway. Senora Loring followed and called to thedriver. As Corliss shook hands with her, she kissed him.
An anger against himself flushed his cheek. "I don't know which roadI'll take, madre,--after I leave here,--this country. But I shallalways remember . . . And tell Nell . . . that . . ." he hesitated.
The Senora smiled and patted his arm. "Si! I understand."
"And, madre, there is a man--vaquero, or cook, a big man, tall, thatthey call Sundown, who works for the Concho. If you see him, pleasetell him--that I sent it back." And he gestured toward the tablewhereon lay the little canvas sack of gold. "Good-bye!"
He stepped hurriedly from the veranda, climbed to the seat of thebuckboard, and spoke to the driver. For a long time the Senora stoodin the doorway watching the glint of the speeding ponies. Then shewent to her bedroom and knelt before the little crucifix. Her prayerwas, strangely enough, not for Will Corliss. She prayed that the sweetMadonna would forgive her if she had done wrong.
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