The Land of Strong Men

by A. M. Chisholm

  CHAPTER XLVII

  PEACE

  Angus was riding up to the French ranch. He had just parted from hiscompanions. Their homeward progress had been slow because of the woundedmen. Turkey and Rennie had gone on toward the home ranch, and Bush andthe other toward town. But he had turned off the trail to see Kathleen.He hated his errand, but it was better that he should tell her thanleave it to a stranger. He would be glad to get it over and go home--toFaith.

  As he approached the house he saw her. Apparently she had seen himcoming, for she came down to greet him. He dismounted stiffly. He felther eyes searching his face.

  "Well?" she queried. He shook his head.

  "I am sorry, Kathleen. It is bad news."

  "I expected it," she said quietly. "Tell me about it--all!"

  He told her the main facts, omitting details. When he had concluded shesat motionless, her eyes on the glory of the evening sky above thewestern ranges.

  "I am sorry," he said again.

  "I understand," she said. "You are sorry that it had to be. I knew whatmight happen if the boys were overtaken. It was inevitable. Well, theymade their choice and took their chance, and it went against them. Ithink Gavin will tell me more than you have told me--some day. Well,this is the end of a good many things. I was merely waiting for word.To-morrow I am going away."

  "There is no need. If you would stay with us--"

  "I am just as grateful, but it is best not."

  "It may be," he admitted. "Is there anything I can do?"

  "If you would take Finn? He's too lively for Faith, but he's a goodhorse. I hate to sell him to a stranger."

  "I will buy him."

  "You will not buy him. Are you too proud to do me that kindness?"

  "No. I will take him and give him a good home all his life."

  "Thank you."

  "For taking the gift of a good horse?"

  "You know better. Finn and I were friends. He--he may miss me a little."For the first time her voice was not quite steady. "To feel that wayabout a horse!" she said scornfully. "Well, it's something to bemissed--even by a horse."

  "I shall miss you," Angus told her. Her eyes rested on him gravely for along moment.

  "I know what you mean," she said. "You liked me because I was a franksort of individual. You may think of me now and then, when there isnothing else on your mind. But as for missing me--pshaw! Nobody willmiss me. I had no friends."

  It was brutally true. Kathleen French, highly organized, sensitive,proud, had repelled friendships. She had hidden real loneliness under acloak of indifference. Apparently sufficient unto herself, others hadtaken her at her own apparent valuation. Her voice was tinged withbitterness. Angus realized vaguely a part of the truth.

  "I don't think anybody thought you wanted friends."

  "Everybody wants friends," she returned. "Often the people who wantthem most have not the knack of making them. But I am not complaining. Ihave always been able to take my medicine without making a very badface."

  "You are a clean, straight, game girl," he said. "One of these days youwill marry, and your husband will be a lucky man."

  She smiled for the first time, but her mouth twitched slightly.

  "I am game enough," she said. "I suppose that goes with the breed--likeother things. Oh, yes, I am game enough to run true under punishment.But as for marrying--I don't think so. I was in love once--or thought Iwas."

  "I didn't know about that," Angus said in surprise. "I'm sorry I saidanything."

  "No, of course you didn't know. Nobody did--not even the man in thecase. He married another girl."

  "He lost a mighty fine wife," Angus said.

  "That's nice of you. But heaven knows what sort of wife I'd have made.The girl he married will suit him better. And now I mustn't keep you,Angus. Faith will be waiting. I won't see either of you again. Shehasn't much cause to love me or mine, but she has never shown it by wordor look. She is real, Angus, and I hope you will be very happy, both ofyou, all through life. Some day--oh, a long time hence, when the thingsthat are so real and hard now have been dimmed and softened by theyears--I may see you both again. Till then--good-by."

  Angus took her strong, firm hand in his, and looked into her sombereyes.

  "Good-by," he said, "and thank you for your good wishes. Good luck toyou and to Gavin. Tell him that. And remember that anything I can do atany time for either you or him will be done cheerfully."

  "I will remember," she said. "I wish you and Gavin had known each otherbetter. You would have been friends. You are both real men."

  She knew nothing of Gavin's connection with his father's death, for thatwas one of several things he had not told her. Another was that he hadlied to Bush. He had said that he had found no trace of Gavin. Kathleenstood beside him as he mounted, and when, having ridden a few hundredyards, he turned in the saddle and glanced back she was still standingwhere he had left her, motionless.

  But as the French ranch vanished from view Angus drew a long breath. Itwas more than the relief from the performance of an unpleasant duty. Achapter seemed to have closed, the old order of things ended, a new onebegun.

  Already the shadows were falling, the hills purple black against thewest. Well, he would be home as fast as a good horse could carry him.Turkey would have told Faith, and she would be waiting for him. He shookthe big, gaunted chestnut into a fast lope.

  But at a sharp bend he met Faith, almost riding her down.

  "Why, old girl!" he cried, while Chief's hoofs slid and grooved thetrail and the reliable Doughnut side-stepped expertly. "This is fine!"

  "I couldn't wait," she said. "I have been waiting too long already. Sowhen Turkey came home I came to meet you."

  "We had to travel slowly. And somebody had to tell Kathleen. I thoughtit was better that I should."

  "I am very sorry for her."

  "So am I. But tell me about yourself. How does it feel to be a grasswidow?"

  "I'm not going to tell you. I've been worried. I suppose I've beensilly. But Jean will tell you all about that. She was aways telling menot to worry, cheering me up."

  "Has she made it up with Chetwood yet?"

  "Well, my goodness!" Faith exclaimed.

  "Why, they're not married, are they?"

  "No. Why, it went clean out of my mind, but this afternoon when I sawTurkey coming, I ran down to meet him and came around the corner of thewagon shed, and there the two of them were. And they looked as if theyhad been--well, you know."

  "Kissing each other?"

  "Yes, it looked like that."

  But the ranch came in sight, its broad, fertile acres dim in the fadinglight. The smell of the fresh earth of fall plowing struck the nostrils,and a tang of wood smoke from new clearing. From the corrals came thevoices of cattle. A colt whinnied in youthful falsetto for his dam. Allsounds carried far in the hush of evening.

  "Seems odd to think this will be broken up," Angus said. "Houses andstreets on the good land; maybe a church on that knoll, a school overyonder. I ought to be glad, because it means money. But I'm not."

  "I know," his wife nodded wisely. "I've been a wanderer and a citydweller most of my life, but I can understand how the one spot on allthe earth may claim a man. And you'll always want a ranch, and stock,and wide spaces, no matter how much money you have. Oh, yes, boy, Iknow."

  "I guess you are right," he admitted. "I grew up that way. Well,there's plenty of time to think it over. I can take another crop offthis." He lifted his head and sniffed the air. "Old girl," he said, "Ibelieve I smell grub--real grub--cooking. And I haven't had a real mealfor three days. We were sort of shy coming out, you know."

  "My heavens!" Faith cried, "Turkey said the same thing. When I left hewas telling Mrs. Foley he would marry her for a pie. Let's hurry."

  Some hours later Angus, shaven and fed, sat with Faith enjoying rest andtobacco. It was good to lie back in a chair, to relax, to be in a houseagain protected from the wind and cold, to look forward to a comfortablebed in place of
one blanket and such browse as could be scraped into aheap as a dog scrapes leaves and rubbish to lie on. Though he couldsleep anywhere, by virtue of youth and a hard body, he appreciatedcomfort.

  Earlier in the evening Jean, Chetwood and Turkey had borne them company.But the two former had gone, followed by caustic comment from thelatter. And soon after that young gentleman had announced that Angus andFaith were a darn sight worse, and that he was going to bed.

  Left alone, Faith spoke the thing which was in her mind.

  "I am glad," she said, "that it was not you who killed Blake."

  "I intended to kill him," he replied, "and I would if it had been myluck to come up with him. But I think I am glad, now, that I didn't,though he deserved it. Anyway Paul Sam had the better right."

  "The poor old Indian!" Faith said softly.

  "Oh, I don't know. If he could talk about it he would say that hecouldn't die better. And then he was a very old man."

  "But life may be sweet to the old."

  "Yes. But when a man is alone, when all of his blood and the friends ofhis youth and manhood are gone, there can't be much to live for. I wouldwish to die before that time comes to me."

  "Don't talk of dying." She shivered a little. But the chord ofmelancholy in his being had been struck and vibrated.

  "Why not? Talking will not bring death nearer, nor stave it off.'_Crioch onarach!_' You have no Gaelic, but it means a good finish--anhonorable end to life. And that is the main thing. What does it matterwhen you die, if you die well? I would not live my last years like atoothless, stiff, old dog, dragging his legs around the house with thesun. I would rather go out with the taste of life sweet in my mouth."

  "We have many years before us, you and I," she said. "I think they willbe happy years, boy."

  "They will be largely what we make them. I remember my father's wordswhen it was near the end with him; and _he_ was a hard man. The thingsworth least in life, he said, were hate and revenge; and the thingsworth most in life and more in death were love, and work well done, anda heart clean of bitterness. I did not think so then. But now I ambeginning to think he was right."

  "Yes, he was right," she said.

  Fell a long silence. At last Faith took the banjo on her knee, andsmiling at her husband began to pick the strings gently. She played atrandom, snatches of melody, broken, indistinct; old airs, odd,half-forgotten. Now and then she sang very softly.

  Angus listened in utter content. He seemed to have reached a harbor, asheltered haven. Toil, struggle, stress seemed far off, faint memories.The spell of the home was upon him in full. Little things--familiarfurnishings, the backs of books, pictures--seemed like the smiling facesof old friends. It was, he recognized, the force of contrast with hisrecent experiences; but it was very pleasant. Softly the banjo talked;and with the haunting murmur of gut and parchment came Faith's voice,low but clear, singing to herself rather than to him.

  "'Hame, laddie, hame, an' it's hame ye'll come to me, Hame to yer hame in yer ain countree; Whaur th' ash, an' th' oak an' th' bonnie hazel tree They be all a-growin' green in yer ain countree.'"

  For a moment the singing ceased, while the banjo whimpered uncertainlyas if seeking a new tune. But it steadied to the same air.

  "'If the bairn be a girl she shall wear a gowden ring; And if it be a boy he shall fight for his king--'"

  Something in her voice, a soft, crooning note, caused Angus to stare atthe singer. Up from the throat to brow a great wave of color swept. Buther voice did not falter:

  "'With his tarpaulin hat and his coat of navy blue He shall pace the quarter-deck as his daddy used to do!'"

  THE END.