The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXVI

  IRONY

  The hills roll away, banking on every side, mounting up, pile on pile,like the mighty waves of a storm-swept ocean. The darkening splendor,the magnificent ruggedness crowds down upon the narrow open placeswith a strange sense of oppression, almost of desolation. It seems asif nothing on earth could ever be so great as that magnificent world,nothing could ever be so small as the life which peoples it.

  The oppression, the desolation grows. The silent shadows of theendless woods crowd with a suggestion of horrors untold, of mysteriestoo profound to be even guessed at. A strange feeling as of a reign ofenchantment pervading sets the flesh of the superstitious creeping.And the narrow, patchy sunlight, by its brilliant contrast, onlyserves to aggravate the sensitive nerves.

  Yet in the woods lurk few enough dangers. It is only their darkstillness. They are still, still in the calm of the brightest day, orin the chill of a windless night. A timid bear, a wolf who spends itsdesolate life in dismal protest against a solitary fate, the crashingrush of a startled caribou, the deliberate bellow of a bull moose,strayed far south from its northern fastnesses. These are the harmlesscreatures peopling the obscure recesses. For the rest, they are theweird suggestions of a sensitive imagination.

  The awe, however, is undeniable and the mind of man can never whollyescape it. Familiarity may temper, but inborn human superstition isindestructible. The brooding silence will shadow the lightest nature.The storms must ever inspire wonder. The gloom hushes the voice. Andso the growing dread. Man may curse the hills in his brutal moments,the thoughtful may be driven to despair, the laughter-loving may seeksolace in tears of depression. But the fascination clings. There is noescape. The cloy of the seductive drug holds to that world of mystery,and they come to it again, and yet again.

  Something of all this was vaguely drifting through the mind of one ofthe occupants of a four-horsed, two-wheeled spring cart as it roseupon the monstrous shoulder of one of the greater hills. Before it laya view of a dark and wild descent, sloping away unto the very bowelsof a pit of gloom. The trail was vague and bush-grown, and crowdingtrees dangerously narrowed it. To the right the hill fell sharply awayat the edge of the track, an abyss that might well have beenbottomless for aught that could be seen from above. To the left thecrown of the hill rose sheer and barren, and only at its foot grew thevegetation that so perilously narrowed the track. Then, ahead, wherethe trail vanished, a misty hollow, dark and deep--the narrowing wallsof a black canyon.

  The blue eyes of the teamster were troubled. Was there ever such acountry for white man to travel? His horses were jaded. Their leansides were tuckered. Gray streaks of sweat scored them from shoulderto flank.

  The man lolled heavily in his driving seat in the manner of theprairie teamster. He knew there was trouble ahead, but it waspractically all he did know of the journey before him.

  As the cart topped the rise he bestirred himself. His whip flicked theair without touching the horses, and he chirrupped encouragingly. Theweary but willing creatures raised their drooping heads, their ribsexpanded as they drew their "tugs" taut, and, at a slow, shufflingtrot, they began the descent.

  A voice from behind caused the man to glance swiftly over hisshoulder.

  "It's no use asking you where we are now, I suppose?" it said in apeevish tone.

  But the teamster's mood was its match.

  "Not a heap, I guess, ma'm," he retorted, and gave up his attention toavoiding the precipice on his right.

  "How far is the place supposed to be?"

  The woman's unease was very evident. Her eyes were upon the darkeningwalls of the canyon toward which they were traveling.

  "Eighty miles from Crowsfoot. That's how the boss said, anyways."

  "How far have we come now?"

  The man laughed. There seemed to be something humorous in hispassenger's inquiries.

  "Crowsfoot to Snarth's farm, thirty-five miles, good. Snarth's toRattler Head, thirty. Sixty-five. Fifteen into this precious camp onYellow Creek. Guess we bin comin' along good since sun-up, an' nowit's noon. Countin' our stop fer breakfast we ought to make thirty oddmiles. Guess we come a good hundred." He laughed again.

  The woman gave an exclamation of impatience and vexation.

  "I think your employer ought to be ashamed of himself sending you todo the journey. You don't know where you are, or what direction we'regoing in. The horses are nearly foundered, and we may be miles andmiles from our destination. What are you going to do?"

  "Ke'p goin' jest as long as the hosses ken ke'p foot to the ground.Guess we'll ease 'em at the bottom, here. It's nigh feed time. Say,ma'm, it ain't no use worritin'. We'll git som'eres sure. The sun'sdead ahead."

  "What's the use of that?" Mercy Lascelles snapped at the man's easyacceptance of the situation. "I wish now I'd come by Leeson Butte."

  "That's sure how the boss said," retorted the man. "The Leeson trailis the right one. It's a good trail, an' I know most every inch of it.You was set comin' round through the hills. Guessed you'd had enoughprairie on the railroad. It's up to you. Howsum, we'll make somewheresby nightfall. Seems to me I got a notion o' that hill, yonder. Thatone, out there," he went on, pointing with his whip at a bald, blackcone rising in the distance against the sky. "That kind o' seems likethe peak o' Devil's Hill. I ain't jest sure, but it seems like."

  Mercy looked in the direction. Her eyes were more angry than anxious,yet anxiety was her principal feeling.

  "I hope to goodness it is. Devil's Hill. A nice name. That's where thecamp is, isn't it? I wish you'd hurry on."

  The teamster spat over the dashboard. A grim smile crept into hiseyes. His passenger had worried him with troublesome questions allthe journey, and he had long since given up cursing his boss forsending him on the job.

  "'Tain't no use," he said shortly. Then he explained. "Y' see, it 'udbe easy droppin' over the side of this. Guess you ain't yearnin' ferglory that way?"

  "We'll never get in at this pace," the woman cried impatiently.

  But the teamster was losing patience, too. Suddenly he became verypolite, and his pale blue eyes smiled mischievously down upon hishorses' backs.

  "Guess we don't need to hurry a heap, ma'm," he said. "Y' see, inthese hills you never can tell. Now we're headin' fer that yer canyon.Maybe the trail ends right ther'."

  "Good gracious, man, then what are we going to do?"

  "Do? Why, y' see, ma'm, we'll have to break a fresh trail--if thatdogone holler ain't one o' them bottomless muskegs," he addedthoughtfully.

  He flicked his whip and spat again. His passenger's voice rose to asharp staccato.

  "Then for goodness' sake why go on?" she demanded.

  "Wal, y' see, you can't never tell till you get ther' in these hills.Maybe that canyon is a river, an' if so the entrance to it's nigh surea muskeg. A bottomless muskeg. You seen 'em, ain't you? No? Wal,they're swamps, an' if we get into one, why, I guess ther's jest HailColumby, or some other fool thing waitin' for us at the bottom. Stillther' mayn't be no muskeg. As I sez, you never can tell, tho' ther'most gener'ly is. Mebbe that's jest a blank wall without no trail.Mebbe this trail ends at a sheer drop of a few hundred feet an' more.Mebbe agin the trail peters out 'fore we get ther'. That's the way inthese yer hills, ma'm; you never can tell if you get lost. An' gittin'lost is so mighty easy. Course we ain't likely to starve till we'veeat up these yer dogone ol' hosses. Never eaten hoss? No? 'Tain't sobad. Course water's easy, if you don't light on one o' them feverswamps. Mountain fever's pretty bad. Still, I don't guess we'll gitworried that way, ma'm. I'd sure say you're pretty tough fer mountainfever to git a holt of. It's the time that's the wust. It might takeus weeks gittin' out,--once you git lost proper. But even so I don'tguess ther's nothin' wuss than timber wolves to worry us. They'remean. Y' see they're nigh allus starvin'--or guess they are. B'arsdon't count a heap, less you kind o' run into 'em at breedin' season.Le's see, this is August. No, 'tain't breedin' season." He sighed asif relieved. Then he stirred quickly a
nd glanced round, his faceperfectly serious. "Guess you got a gun? It's allus good to hev a gunround. You never ken tell in these yer hills--when you git lostproper."

  "Oh, you're a perfect fool. Go on with your driving." Mercy sat backin her seat fuming, while the teamster sighed, gently smiling down athis horses.

  "Mebbe you're right, ma'm," he said amiably. "These dogone hills makesfools o' most fellers, when they git lost proper--as I'd sure say weare now."

  But the man had achieved his object. The woman desisted from furtherquestioning. She sat quite still, conscious of the unpleasant factthat the man was laughing at her, and also perfectly aware that hisincompetence was responsible for the fact that they were utterly lostamongst the wild hills about them.

  She was very angry. Angry with the man, angry with herself, for notbeing guided by the hotel keeper at Crowsfoot, but more than all shewas angry with Joan for bidding her make the journey.

  Yet she had been unable to resist the girl's appeal. Her inability wasnot from any sentimental feeling or sympathy. Such feelings couldnever touch her. But the appeal of the manner in which her curse stillfollowed the girl, and the details she had read through the lines ofher letter, a letter detailing the circumstances of her life on YellowCreek, and written under the impulse and hope inspired by the Padre'ssupport had given her the keenest interest. All the mystical side ofher nature had been stirred in a manner she could not deny, had nodesire to deny.

  Yes, she had come to investigate, to observe, to seek the truth of herown pronouncement. She had come without scruple, to watch theireffect. To weigh them in the balance of her scientific mysticism. Shehad come to watch the struggles of the young girl in the toils whichenveloped her. Her mind was the diseased mind of the fanatic, promptedby a nature in which cruelty held chief place.

  But now had come this delay. Such was her nature that personal dangerever appalled her. Death and disaster in the abstract were nothing toher, but their shadows brushing her own person was something more thanterrifying. And as she thought of the immensity of the world abouther, the gloom, the awful hush, the spirit of the hills got hold ofher and left her full of apprehension.

  The teamster now devoted his whole attention to his whereabouts. Hispassenger's interminable questioning silenced, he felt more at hisease. And feeling at his ease he was able to bring his prairie-trainedfaculties to bear on the matter in hand. As they progressed down theslope he closely observed the tall, distant crown which he thought herecognized, and finally made up his mind that his estimate was right.It certainly was the cone crown of Devil's Hill. Thus his certaintynow only left him concerned with the ultimate development of the trailthey were on.

  It was quite impossible to tell what that might be. The road seemed tobe making directly for the mouth of the canyon, and yet all hisexperience warned him that such a destination would be unusual. Itmust turn away. Yet where? How?

  He searched ahead on the hillside above him for a modification of itsslope. And a long way ahead he fancied he detected such an indication.But even so, the modification was so slight that there seemed littleenough hope.

  He kept on with dogged persistence. To return was not to be thought ofyet. Any approach to vacillation now would be quite fatal.

  The trail was fading out to little more than a double cattle track,and the farther he looked along it the more indistinct it seemed tobecome. Yet it continued, and the ever downward slope went on, and on.

  His anxious eyes were painfully alert. Where? Where? He was askinghimself with every jog of his weary horses. Then all of a sudden hisquestions ceased, and a decided relief leapt into his eyes as he drewhis horses up to a halt.

  He turned to his passenger and pointed with his whip at the hillabreast of them, his eyes undoubtedly witnessing his relief.

  "See that, ma'm?" he cried. And Mercy beheld a narrow, rough flight ofsteps cut in the face of the hill. Each step was deliberatelyprotected with a timber facing securely staked against "washouts," andthough the workmanship was rough it was evidently the handiwork of menwho thought only of endurance. It rose from the trail-side in aslanting direction, and, adopting the easiest course on the slope,wound its way to the very crown of the hill, over the top of which itvanished.

  "Well?"

  The woman's inquiry was ungracious enough.

  "Why, that's the meanin' o' this yer trail." The man pointed above."That sure leads somewheres."

  "I suppose it does."

  Mercy snapped her reply.

  "Sure," said the man. "There's shelter up ther', anyways. An' by thelooks o' them steps I'd say folks is livin' ther' right now."

  "Then for goodness' sake go up and see, and don't sit there wastingtime. I never had to deal with such a perfect fool in my life. Passthe reins over to me, and I'll wait here."

  The man grinned. But instead of handing her the reins he secured themto the iron rail of the cart.

  "Guess them hosses know best wot to do 'emselves," he observedquietly, as he scrambled from the cart. "Best let 'em standtheirselves, ma'm,--you never know wot's along the end of thattrail--muskegs is----" His final jibe was lost in a deep-throatedchuckle as he began the steep ascent before him.

  Mercy watched him with angry eyes. The man added impertinence to hisfoolishness, and the combination was altogether too much for hertemper. But for the fact that she required his services, she wouldwell have wished that he might fall and break his neck. But her chiefconcern was to reach her destination, so she watched him climb thelong steps in the hope that some comforting result might follow.

  As the man rose higher and higher, and his figure grew smaller, hisclimb possessed an even greater interest for Mercy Lascelles than sheadmitted. She began to appreciate the peril of it, and peril, inothers, always held her fascinated.

  He was forced to move slowly, clinging closely with both hands to thesteps above him. It would be easy to slip and fall, and she waited forthat fall. She waited with nerves straining and every faculty alert.

  So absorbed was she that she had forgotten the horses, forgotten herown position, everything, in the interest of the moment. Had it beenotherwise, she must have noticed that something had attracted thedrooping horses' attention. She must have observed the suddenly liftedheads, and pricked ears. But these things passed her by, as did theapproach of a solitary figure bearing a burden of freshly taken foxpelts, which quite enveloped its massive shoulders.

  The man was approaching round a slight bend in the trail, and themoment the waiting cart came into view, he stood, startled at theapparition. Then he whistled softly, and glanced back over the road hehad come. He looked at a narrow point where the trail suddenly ended,a sharp break where the cliff dropped away abruptly, and furtherprogress could only be made by an exhausting downward climb by askilled mountaineer.

  Then he came slowly on, his gray eyes closely scrutinizing the figurein the cart. In a moment he saw that it was a woman, and, by herdrooping pose, recognized that she was by no means young. His eyestook on a curious expression--half doubt, half wonder, and his facegrew a shade paler under his tan. But the change only lasted a fewseconds. He quickly pulled himself together, and, shaking his whitehead thoughtfully, continued his way toward the vehicle with thenoiseless gait which moccasins ever give to the wearer. He reached thecart quite unobserved. The woman's whole attention was absorbed by theclimbing man, and the newcomer smiled curiously as he passed agreeting.

  "You've hit a wrong trail, haven't you?" he inquired.

  The woman in the cart gave a frantic start, and clutched at the siderail as though for support. Then her eyes came on a level with theman's smiling face, and fear gave way to a sudden expression ofrelentless hatred.

  "You?" she cried, and her lean figure seemed to crouch as though aboutto spring.

  The man returned her stare without flinching. His eyes still woretheir curious smile.

  "Yes," he said. "It is I."

  The woman's lips moved. She swallowed as though her throat hadsuddenly become parched.


  "Moreton Bucklaw," she murmured. "And--and after all these years."

  The man nodded. Then several moments passed without a word.

  Finally it was the man who spoke. His manner was calm, so calm thatno one could have guessed a single detail of what lay between thesetwo, or the significance of their strange meeting.

  "You've hit a bad trail," he said. "There's a big drop back there.These steps go on up to my home. The old fort. They're an old shortcut to this valley. Guess your man'll need to unhitch his horses andturn the cart round. He can't get it round else. Then, if you go backpast the shoulder of the hill, you'll see an old track, sharp to yourright. That leads into the trail that'll take you right on down to thefarm where little Joan lives." He moved toward the steps. "I'll tellyour man," he said.

  He mounted the steps with the ease of familiarity, his great musclesmaking the effort appear ridiculously easy. A little way up he paused,and looked down at her.

  "Guess I shall see you again?" he said, with the same curious smile inhis steady eyes.

  And the woman's reply came sharply up the hillside to him. It camewith all the pent-up hatred of years, concentrated into one sentence.The hard eyes were alight with a cold fury, which, now, in heradvancing years, when the freshness and beauty that had once been herscould no longer soften them, was not without its effect upon the man.

  "Yes. You will see me again, Moreton Bucklaw."

  And the man continued the ascent with a feeling as though he hadlistened to the pronouncement of his death sentence.