The Eagle's Heart

by Hamlin Garland

  PART II

  CHAPTER XII

  THE YOUNG EAGLE FLUTTERS THE DOVE-COTE

  The little town of Marmion was built on the high, grassy, parklike bankof the Cedar River; at least, the main part of the residences and storesstood on the upper level, while below, beside the roaring water, only acouple of mills and some miserable shacks straggled along a road whichran close to the sheer walls of water-worn limestone.

  The town was considered "picturesque" by citizens of the smaller farmvillages standing bleakly where the prairie lanes intersected. To beable to live in Marmion was held to be eminent good fortune by thepeople roundabout, and the notion was worth working for. "If things turnout well we will buy a lot in Marmion and build a house there," husbandsoccasionally said to their wives and daughters, to console them for themud, or dirt, or heat, or cold of the farm life. One by one some ofthose who had come into the country early, and whose land had grownsteadily in value as population increased, were able to rent their farmsto advantage and "move into town." Thus the streets gradually lengthenedout into the lanes, and brick blocks slowly replaced the battlementedwooden stores of earlier frontier construction.

  To Harold Excell, fresh from the wide spaces of the plains, the townappeared smothered in leaves, and the air was oppressively stagnant. Hecame into the railway station early one July morning, tired and dusty,with a ride of two days and a night in an ordinary coach. As he walkedslowly up the street toward the center of the sleeping village, the odorof ripe grain and the familiar smell of poplar and maple trees went tohis heart. His blood leaped with remembered joys. Under such trees, inthe midst of such fragrance, he had once walked with his sister and withJack. His heart swelled with the thought of the Burns' farm, and thehearty greeting they would give him could he but ride up to the door.

  And Mary! How would she seem to him now? Four years was a long time atthat period of a girl's life, but he was certain he would recognize her.He had not written to her of his coming, for he wished to announcehimself. There were elements of adventure and surprise in the plan whichpleased him. He had not heard from her for nearly a year, and thattroubled him a little; perhaps she had moved away or was married. Thethought of losing her made him shiver with sudden doubt of the goodsense of his action. Anyhow, he would soon know.

  The clerk of the principal hotel was sleeping on a cot behind thecounter, and Mose considerately decided not to wake him. Taking a seatby the window, he resumed his thinking, while the morning lightinfiltrated the sky. He was only twenty-two years of age, but in his ownthought he had left boyhood far behind. As a matter of fact he looked tobe five years older than he was. His face was set in lines indicatingresolution and daring, his drooping mustache hid the boyish curves ofhis lips, and he carried himself with a singular grace, self-confident,decisive, but not assertive. The swing of his shoulders had charm, andhe walked well. The cowboy's painful hobble had not yet been fastenedupon him.

  Sitting there waiting the dawn, his face became tired, somber, almosthaggard, with self-accusing thought. He was not yet a cattle king, hewas, in fact, still a cowboy. The time had gone by when a hired handcould easily acquire a bunch of cattle and start in for himself--andyet, though he had little beyond his saddle and a couple of horses, hewas in Marmion to look upon the face of the girl who had helped him tokeep "square" and clean in a land where dishonesty and vice were commonas sage brush. He had sworn never to set foot in Rock River again, andno one but Jack knew of his visit to Marmion.

  Now that he was actually in the town where Mary lived he was puzzled toknow how to proceed. He had wit enough to know that in Marmion a girlcould not receive visits from a strange young man and escape the fire ofinfuriate gossip. He feared to expose her to such comment, and yet,having traveled six hundred miles to see her, he was not to be deterredby any other considerations, especially by any affecting himself.

  He knew something, but not all, of the evil fame his name conveyed tothe citizens in his native state. As "Harry Excell, _alias_ Black Mose,"he had figured in the great newspapers of Chicago, and Denver, andOmaha. Imaginative and secretly admiring young reporters had heapedalliterative words together to characterize his daring, his skill as amarksman and horseman, and had also darkly hinted of his part indesperate stage and railway robbery in the Farther West. To all this--upto the time of his return--Harold had replied, "These chaps must earn aliving some way, I reckon." He was said to have shot down six men inhis first "scrimmage." "No one presumes to any impertinent inquirieswhen 'Black Mose' rides into town."

  Another enterprising newspaper youth had worked out the secret historyof "Black Mose": "He began his career of crime early; at sixteen yearsof age he served in State's prison for knifing a rival back in theStates." This report enabled the Rock River Call to identify HaroldExcell with "Black Mose," to the pain and humiliation of Pastor Excell.

  Harold paid very little heed to all this till his longing to see Marygrew intolerable--even now, waiting for the Sabbath day to dawn, he didnot fully realize the black shadow which streamed from his name and hissupposititious violences. He divined enough of it to know that he mustremain unknown to others, and he registered as "M. Harding, Omaha."

  He was somewhat startled to find himself without appetite, and pushingaway his tough steak and fried potatoes, he arose and returned to thestreet. The problem before him required delicacy of handling, and he wasnot one to assume a tactful manner. The closer he came to the meetingthe more difficult it became. He must see her without causing comment,and without Jack's aid he saw no way of doing it. He had written toJack, asking him to meet him, and so he waited.

  He was a perilously notable figure in spite of his neat black suit andquiet ways. His wide hat sat upon his head with a negligence whichstopped short of swagger, and his coat revealed the splendid lines ofhis muscular shoulders. He had grown to a physical manhood which had theleopard's lithe grace and the lion's gravity. His dimpled andclean-shaven chin was strong, and the line of his lips firm. His eyeswere steady and penetrating, giving an impression of reticence. Hishands were slender and brown, and soft in the palms as those of a girl.The citizens marveled over him as he moved slowly through the streets,thinking himself quite indistinguishable among the other young men indark suits and linen collars.

  Waiting was most difficult, and to remain indoors was impossible, so hewalked steadily about the town. As he returned from the river road forthe fifth time, the bells began to ring for church, filling him withother memories of his youth, of his father and his pulpit, and broughtto his mind also the sudden recollection of one of Jack's letters,wherein he mentioned Mary's singing in the choir. If she were at homeshe would be singing yet, he argued, and set forth definitely to findher.

  To inquire was out of the question--so he started in at the largestchurch with intent to make the rounds. After waiting till the choir wasabout to begin the first hymn, he slipped in and took a seat near thedoor, his heart beating loudly and his breath much quickened.

  The interior was so familiar, it seemed for the moment to be hisfather's church in Rock River. The odors, sounds, movements were quitethe same. The same deaf old men, led by determined, sturdy old women,were going up the aisle to the front pews. The pretty girls, takingtheir seats in the middle pews (where their new hats could be enjoyed bythe young men at the rear) became Dot, and Alice, and Nettie--and forthe moment the cowboy was very boyish and tender. The choir assemblingabove the pulpit made him shiver with emotion. "Perhaps one of them willbe Mary and I won't know her," he said to himself. "I will know hervoice," he added.

  But, as the soprano took her place, his heart ceased to pound--she wassmall, and dark, and thin. He arose and slipped out to continue hissearch.

  They were singing as he entered the next chapel, and it required but amoment's listening to convince himself that Mary was not there. Thethird church was a small stone building of odd structure, and while hehesitated before its door, a woman's voice took up a solo strain,powerful, exultant, and so piercingly sweet that the
plainsman shiveredas if with sudden cold. Around him the softly moving maples threwdappling shadows on the walk. The birds in the orchards, the insects inthe grass, the clouds overhead seemed somehow involved in the poetry andjoy of that song. The wild heart of the young trailer became like thatof a child, made sweet and tender by the sovereign power of a voice.

  He did not move till the clear melody sank into the harmony of theorgan, then, with bent head and limbs unwontedly infirm, he entered thelovely little audience room. He stumbled into the first seat in thecorner, his eyes piercing the colored dusk which lay between him and thesinger. It was Mary, and it seemed to him that she had become aprincess, sitting upon a throne. Accustomed to see only the slatternlywomen of the cow towns, or the thin, hard-worked, and poorly-dressedwives and daughters of the ranchers, he humbled himself before thebeauty and dignity and refinement of this young singer.

  She was a mature woman, full-bosomed, grave of feature, introspective ofglance. Her graceful hat, her daintily gloved hands, her tasteful dress,impressed the cowboy with a feeling that all art and poetry andrefinement were represented by her. For the moment his own serenity andself-command were shaken. He cowered in his seat like a dust-coveredplowman in a parlor, and when Mary looked in his direction his breathquickened and he shrank. He was not yet ready to have her recognize him.

  The preacher, a handsome and scholarly young fellow, arose to speak, andHarold was interested in him at once. The service had nothing of theold-time chant or drawl or drone. In calm, unhesitating speech the youngman proceeded, from a text of Hebrew scripture, to argue points of rightand wrong among men, and to urge upon his congregation right thinkingand right action. He used a great many of the technical phrases ofcarpenters and stonemasons and sailors. He showed familiarity also withthe phrases of the cattle country. Several times a low laugh rippledover his congregation as he uttered some peculiarly apt phrase or madeuse of some witty illustration. To the cowboy this sort of preachingcame with surprise. He thought: "The boys would kieto to this chap allright." He was not eager to have them listen to Mary singing.

  Sitting there amid the little audience of thoughtful people, his brainfilled with new conceptions of the world and of human life. Nothing wasclearly defined in the tumult of opposing pictures. At one moment hethought of his sister and his family, but before he could imagine herhome or decide on how to see her, a picture of his father, or Jack, orthe peaceful Burns' farm came whirling like another cloud before hisbrain, and all the time his eyes searched Mary's calm and beautifulface. He saw her smile, too, when the preacher made a tellingapplication of a story. How would she receive him after so many years?She had not answered his last letter; perhaps she was married. Again thechilly wind from the canon of doubt blew upon him. If she was, why thatended it. He would go back to the mountains and never return.

  The minister finished at last and Mary arose again to sing. She wastaller, Harold perceived, and more matronly in all ways. As she sang,the lonely soul of the plainsman was moved to an ecstasy which filledhis throat and made his eyes misty with tears. He thought of his days inthe gray prison, and of this girlish voice singing like an angel tocomfort him. She did not seem to be singing to him now. She sang as abird sings out of abounding health and happiness, and as she sang, themountains retreated into vast distances. The rush of the cattle on thedrive was fainter than the sigh of the wind, and the fluting of the Utelover was of another world. For the moment he felt the majesty and theirrevocableness of human life.

  He stood in a shadowed corner at the close of the service and watchedher come down the aisle. As she drew near his breath left him, and thedesire to lay his hand on her arm became so intense that his fingerslocked upon the back of his pew--but he let her pass. She glanced at himcasually, then turned to smile at some word of the preacher walking justbehind her. Her passing was like music, and the fragrance of hergarments was sweeter than any mountain flower. The grace of her walk,the exquisite fairness of her skin subdued him, who acknowledged nomaster and no mistress. She walked on out into the Sabbath sunshine andhe followed, only to see her turn up the sidewalk close to the shoulderof the handsome young minister.

  The lonely youth walked back to his hotel with manner so changed hismountain companions would have marveled at it. A visit which had seemedso simple on the Arickaree became each moment more complicated incivilization. The refined young minister with the brown pointed beard,so kindly and thoughtful and wholesome of manner, was a new sort of manto such as Harold Excell. He feared no rivalry among the youth of thevillage, but this scholar----

  Jack met him at the hotel--faithful old Jack, whose freckled facebeamed, and whose spectacled eyes were dim with gladness. They shookhands again and again, crying out confused phrases. "Old man, how areyou?" "I'm all right, how are you?" "You look it." "Where'd you find thered whiskers?" "They came in a box." "Your mustache is a wonder."

  Ultimately they took seats and looked at each other narrowly andquietly. Then Harold said, "I'm Mr. Harding here."

  Jack replied: "I understand. Your father knows, too. He wants to come upand see you. I said I'd wire, shall I?"

  "Of course--if he wants to see me--but I want to talk to you first. I'veseen Mary!"

  "Have you? How did you manage?"

  "I trailed her. Went to all the churches in town. She sings in a littlestone church over here."

  "I know. I've been up here to see her once or twice myself."

  Harold seized him by the arm. "See here, Jack--I must talk with her. Howcan I manage it without doing her harm?"

  "That's the question. If these people should connect you with 'BlackMose' they'd form a procession behind you. Harry, you don't know, youcan't imagine the stories they've got up about you. They've made youinto a regular Oklahoma Billy the Kid and train robber. The first greatspread was that fight you had at Running Bear, that got into the Omahapapers in three solid columns about six months after it happened. Ofcourse I knew all about it from your letters--no one had laid it to youthen, but now everybody knows you are 'Black Mose,' and if you should berecognized you couldn't see Mary without doing her an awful lot of harm.You must be careful."

  "I know all that," replied Harold gloomily. "But you must arrange for meto see her right away, this afternoon or to-night."

  "I'll manage it. They know me here and I can call on her and take afriend, an old classmate, you see, without attracting muchattention--but it isn't safe for you to stay here long, somebody isdead-sure to identify you. They've had two or three pictures of yougoing around that really looked like you, and then your father coming upmay let the secret out. We must be careful. I'll call on Maryimmediately after dinner and tell her you are here."

  "Is she married? Some way she seemed like a married woman."

  "No, she's not married, but the young preacher you heard this morningis after her, they say, and he's a mighty nice chap."

  There was no more laughter on the gentle, red-bearded face of youngBurns. Had Harold glanced at him sharply at that moment, he would haveseen a tremor in Jack's lips and a singular shadow in his eyes. Hisvoice indeed did affect Harold, though he took it to be sympatheticsadness only.

  Jack brightened up suddenly. "I can't really believe it is you, Harry.You've grown so big and burly, and you look so old." He smiled. "I wishI could see some of that shooting they all tell about, but that _would_let the cat out."

  Harold could not be drawn off to discuss such matters.

  "Come out to the ranch and I'll show you. But how are we to meet father?If he is seen talking with me it may start people off----"

  "I'll tell you. We'll have him come up and join you on the train and godown to Rock River together. I don't mean for you to get off, you cankeep right on. Now, you mustn't wear that broad hat; you wear agrape-box straw hat while you're here. Take mine and I'll wear a cap."

  He took charge of Harold's affairs with ready and tactful hand. He waseager to hear his story, but Harold refused to talk on any othersubject than Mary. At dinner he sat in gloomy s
ilence, disregarding hisfriend's pleasant, low-voiced gossip concerning old friends in RockRiver.

  After Jack left the hotel Harold went to his room and took a look athimself in the glass. He was concerned to see of what manner of man hereally was. He was not well-satisfied with himself; his face and handswere too brown and leathery, and when he thought of his failure as arancher his brow darkened. He was as far from being a cattle king aswhen he wrote that boyish letter four years before, and he had senseenough to know that a girl of Mary's grace and charm does not lack forsuitors. "Probably she is engaged or married," he thought. Life seemed aconfusion and weariness at the moment.

  As soon as he heard Jack on the stairs he hurried to meet him.

  "What luck? Have you seen her?"

  Jack closed the door before replying, "Yes."

  "What did she say?"

  "She turned a little paler and just sat still for a minute or two. Youknow she isn't much of a talker. Then she said, 'Was he at churchto-day?' I said 'Yes'; then she said, 'I think I saw him. I saw astranger and was attracted by his face, but of course I never thoughtit could be Harold.' She was completely helpless for a while, but as Italked she began to see her way. She finally said, 'He has come a longway and I must see him. I _must_ talk with him, but people must not knowwho he is.' I told her we were going to be very careful for her sake."

  "That's right, we must," Harold interrupted.

  "She didn't seem scared about herself. 'It won't harm me,' she said,'but father is hard to manage when anything displeases him. We must becareful on Harold's account.'"

  Harold's throat again contracted with emotion. "She never thinks ofherself; that's her way."

  "Now we've just got to walk boldly up the walk, the two of us together,and call on her. I'll introduce you to her father or she will; he knowsme. We will talk about our school days while the old gentleman isaround. He will drift away after a time, naturally. If he doesn't I'lltake him out for a walk."

  This they did. Made less of a cowboy by Jack's straw hat, Harold wentforth on a trail whose course was not well-defined in his mind, thoughnow that Jack had arranged details so deftly that Mary was not in dangerof being put to shame, his native courage and resolution came back tohim. In the full springtide of his powerful manhood Mary's name and facehad come at last to stand for everything worth having in the world, andlike a bold gambler he was staking all he had on a single whirl of thewheel.

  Their meeting was so self-contained that only a close observer couldhave detected the tension. Mary was no more given to externalizing heremotions than he. She met him with a pale, sweet, dignified mask offace. She put out her hand, and said, "I am glad to see you, Mr.Harding," but his eyes burned down into hers with such intensity thatshe turned to escape his glance. "Father, you know Mr. Burns, and thisis his friend, Mr. Harding, whom I used to know."

  Jack came gallantly to the rescue. He talked crops, politics, weather,church affairs, and mining. He chattered and laughed in a way whichwould have amazed Harold had he not been much preoccupied. He wasunprepared for the change in Mary. He had carried her in his mind allthese years as a little slip of a maiden, wrapt in expression, somber ofmood, something half angel and half child, and always she walked in agray half light, never in the sun. Now here she faced him, a dignifiedwoman, with deep, serene eyes, and he could not comprehend how the palegirl had become the magnetic, self-contained woman. He was thrown intodoubt and confusion, but so far from showing this he sat in absolutesilence, gazing at her with eyes which made her shiver with emotion.

  Talk was purposeless and commonplace at first, a painful waiting.Suddenly they missed Jack and the father. They were alone and free tospeak their most important words. Harold seized upon the opportunitywith most disconcerting directness.

  "I've come for you, Mary," he said, as if he had not hitherto uttered aword, and his voice aroused some mysterious vibration within her bosom."I'm not a cattle king; I have nothing but two horses, a couple of guns,and a saddle--but all the same, here I am. I got lonesome for you, andat last I took the back trail to find out whether you had forgot me ornot."

  His pause seemed to require an answer and her lips were dry as she saidin a low voice, "No, I did not forget, but I thought you had forgotten_me_."

  "A man don't forget such a girl as you are, Mary. You were in my mindall the time. Your singing did more for me than anything else. I'vetried to keep out of trouble for your sake. I haven't succeeded verywell as you know--but most of the stories about me are lies. I've onlyhad two fights and they were both in self-defense and I don't think Ikilled anybody. I never know exactly what I'm doing when I get into ascrap. But I've kept out of the way of it on your account. I never goafter a man. It's pretty hard not to shoot out there where men go on therampage so often. It's easier, now than it used to be, for they areafraid of me."

  He seemed to come to a halt in that direction, and after a moment'spause took a new start. "I saw you at church to-day, and I saw you walkoff with the minister, and that gave me a sudden jolt. It seemed to meyou--liked him mighty well----"

  She was sitting in silence and apparent calmness, but she flushed andher lips set close together. It was evident that no half-explanationswould suffice this soul of the mountain land.

  He arose finally and stood for an instant looking at her with piercingintentness. His deep excitement had forced him to physical action.

  "I could see he was the man for you, not me. Right there I felt likequitting. I went back to my hotel doing more thinking to the squareminute than ever before in my life, I reckon. I ought to have pulled outfor the mountains right then, but you see, I had caught a glimpse ofyou again, and I couldn't. The smell of your dress----" he paused amoment. "You are the finest girl God ever made and I just couldn't gowithout seeing you, at least once more."

  He was tense, almost rigid with the stress of his sudden passion. Sheremained silent with eyes fixed upon him, musing and somber. She wasslower to utter emotion than he, and could not speak even when he hadfinished.

  He began to walk up and down just before her, his brows moodily knitted."I'm not fit to ask a girl like you to marry me, I know that. I'veserved time in jail, and I'm under indictment by the courts this veryminute in two States. I'm no good on earth but to rope cattle. I can'tbring myself to farm or sell goods back here, and if I could yououghtn't to have anything to do with me--but all the same you're worthmore to me than anything else. I don't suppose there has been an hour ofmy life since I met you first that I haven't thought of you. I dreamedof you--when I'm riding at night--I try to think----"

  He stopped abruptly and caught up her left hand. "You've got a ring onyour finger--is that from the minister?"

  Her eyes fled from his and she said, "Yes."

  He dropped her hand. "I don't blame you any. I've made a failure of it."His tone was that of a bankrupt at fifty. "I don't know enough to writea letter--I'm only a rough, tough fool. I thought you'd be thinking ofme just the way I was thinking of you, and there was nothing to writeabout because I wasn't getting ahead as I expected. So I kept waitingtill something turned up to encourage me. Nothing did, and now I'm paidfor it."

  His voice had a quality which made her weep. She tried to think of somewords of comfort but could not. She was indeed too deeply concerned withher own contending emotions. There was marvelous appeal in thispowerful, bronzed, undisciplined youth. His lack of tact and gallantry,his disconcerting directness of look and speech shook her, troubled her,and rendered her weak. She was but a year younger than he, and her lifehad been almost as simple exteriorly, but at center she was of far finerdevelopment. She had always been introspective, and she had grownself-analytic. She knew that the touch of this young desperado's handhad changed her relation toward the world. As he talked she listenedwithout formulating a reply.

  When at last she began to speak she hesitated and her sentences werebroken. "I am very sorry--but you see I had not heard from you for along time--it would be impossible--for me to live on the plains so faraway-
-even if--even if I had not promised Mr. King----"

  "Well, that ends it," he said harshly, and his voice brought tearsagain. "I go back to my cow punching, the only business I know. As yousay, the cow country is no place for a girl like you. It's a mighty hardplace for women of any kind, and you ... Besides, you're a singer, youcan't afford to go with me. It's all a part of my luck. Things have goneagainst me from the start."

  He paused to get a secure hold on his voice. "Well, now, I'm going, butI don't want you to forget me; don't pray for me, just _sing_ for me.I'll hear you, and it'll help keep me out of mischief. Will you dothat?"

  "Yes--if you--if it will help----"

  Jack's voice, unusually loud, interrupted her, and when the fatherentered, there was little outward sign of the passionate drama justenacted.

  "Won't you sing for us, Mary?" asked Jack a few minutes later.

  Mary looked at Harold significantly and arose to comply. Harold sat withhead propped on his palm and eyes fixed immovably upon her face whileshe sang, If I Were a Voice. The voice was stronger, sweeter, and thephrasing was more mature, but it was after all the same soul singingthrough the prison gloom, straight to his heart. She charged the wordswith a special, intimate, tender meaning. She conveyed to him themessage she dared not speak, "Be true in spite of all. My heart is sorefor you, let me comfort you."

  He, on his part, realized that one who could sing like that had a widermission in the world than to accompany a cowboy to the bleak plains ofthe West. To comfort him was a small part of her work in the world. Itwas her mission to go on singing solace and pleasure to thousands allover the nation.

  When she had finished he arose and offered his hand with a singularcalmness which moved the girl more deeply than any word he had said."When you sing that song, think of me, sometimes, will you?"

  "Yes--always," she replied.

  "Good-by," he said abruptly. Dropping her-hand, he went out withoutspeaking another word.

  Jack, taking her hand in parting, found it cold and nerveless.

  "May I see you again before we go?" he asked.

  Her eyes lighted a little and her hand tightened in his. "Yes--I want tospeak with you," she said, and ended in a whisper, "about him."

  Jack overtook Harold but remained silent. When they reached their room,Harold dropped into a chair like one exhausted by a fierce race.

  "This ends it, Jack, I'll never set foot in the States again; from thistime on I keep to the mountains."