CHAPTER XIV
NAN DRIFTS
Without going in to speak to Gale, whom Bull Page, his nurse, reportedvery cross but not hurt much, Nan left her packet for him and rodehome. Her uncle Duke was in town. She had the house to herself, withonly Bonita, the old Mexican serving-woman, and Nan ate her latesupper alone.
The longer she pondered on de Spain and his dilemma--and her own--themore she worried. When she went to bed, up-stairs in her little gableroom, she thought sleep--never hard for her to woo--would relieve herof her anxiety for at least the night. But she waited in vain forsleep. She was continually asking herself whether de Spain was reallyvery badly hurt, or whether he might be only tricking her intothinking he was. Assailed by conflicting doubts, she tossed on herpillow till a resolve seized her to go up again to his hiding-placeand see what she could see or hear--possibly, if one were on foot, shecould uncover a plot.
She dressed resolutely, buckled a holster to her side, and slipping arevolver--a new one that Gale had given her--into it for protection,she walked softly down-stairs and out of doors.
The night air was clear with a three-quarter moon well up in the sky.She took her way rapidly along the trail to the mountain, keeping asmuch as possible within the great shadows cast by the towering peaks.Not a sound met her acute listening as she pressed on--not a livingthing seemed to move anywhere in the whole great Gap, except thisslender-footed, keen-eyed girl, whose heart beat with apprehension ofwiles, stratagems, and ambush concerning the venture she was making.
Breathing stealthily and keyed to a tense feeling of uncertainty andsuspicion, Nan at length found herself below the ledge where de Spainwas in hiding. She stopped and, with the craft of an Indian, stoodperfectly still for a very long time before she began to climb up towhere the enemy lay. Hearing no sound, she took courage and made theascent. She reached without adventure the corner of the ledge whereshe had first seen him, and there, lying flat, listened again.
Hearing only the music of the little cascade, she swept the ledge aswell as she could with her eyes, but it was now so far in shadow as tolie in impenetrable darkness. Hardly daring to breathe, she crept andfelt her way over it with her hands, discovering nothing until she hadalmost reached de Spain's retreat at the farther side. Then her heartstopped in an agony of fear--underneath the overhanging wall she heardvoices.
To attempt to escape was as dangerous as to lie still. Had she dared,she would have retreated at once the way she came. Since she darednot, she was compelled to hear what was said, and, indeed, was eagerto hear. De Spain had confederates, then, and had tricked her, afterall. Whatever his plot, she was resolved to know it, and instead ofretreating she took her revolver in hand and drew herself nearer. Whenshe had gained her new position the mutterings, which had beenindistinct, became audible. It was not two voices she had heard, butone--de Spain, she judged, was talking in his sleep.
But a moment later this explanation failed to satisfy her. Themutterings were too constant and too disconnected to be mistaken forsleep-talking--it dawned on Nan that this must be delirium. She couldhear de Spain throwing himself from side to side, and the near and farsounds, as if of two voices, were explained. It was possible now forher to tell herself she was mistress of the situation. She creptnearer.
He was babbling in the chill darkness about ammunition, urging men tomake haste, warning them of some one coming. He turned on the rockfloor ceaselessly, sometimes toward her, sometimes from her, mutteringof horses, water, passengers, wheels, wrecks. He made broken appealsto be chopped out, directed men where to use their axes. Nan listenedto his ravings, overcome by the revelation of his condition. Once heruncle had lain sick of a fever and had been delirious; but that, hersole experience, was nothing to this. Once de Spain threw out agroping hand and, before she could escape, caught her skirt. Nan triedto pull away. His grip did not loosen. She took his hand in hers and,while he muttered meaningless words, forced his fingers open and drewaway. His hand was dry and burning hot.
She told herself he must die if he remained longer unaided, and therewere unpleasant possibilities, if he died where he lay. Such a death,so close to her own home might, if it were ever known, throw suspicionon her uncle and arouse the deeper resentment of the wounded man'sfriends. If the least of pity played a part in suggesting that hersafest course was to help de Spain, Nan kept its promptings as much asshe could in the penumbra of her thoughts. She did not want to pity orto help him, she convinced herself; but she did not want his deathlaid to a Morgan plot--for none of his friends would ever believe deSpain had found his way alive and alone to where he lay.
All of this Nan was casting up in her mind as she walked home. She hadalready decided, but without realizing it, what to do, and was willingto assume that her mind was still open.
Toward daylight of the morning, de Spain dreamed he was notalone--that a figure moved silently in the faintness of the dawn--afigure he struggled to believe a reality, but one that tricked hiswandering senses and left him, at the coming of another day, weaker,with failing courage, and alone.
But when he opened his eyes later, and with a clearer head, he foundfood and drink near. Unable to believe his sight, he fancied hiswavering senses deceiving him, until he put out his hand and feltactually the substance of what he saw. He took up a bottle of milkincredulously, and sipped at it with the caution of a man not unusedto periods of starvation. He broke eggs and swallowed them, atintervals, hungrily from the shell; and meat he cached, animal-like,in near-by crannies and, manlike, in his pockets.
He was determined, if she should come again, to intercept his visitor.For forty-eight hours he tried cat-naps with an occasional sandwichto keep up his strength. Nan returned unseen, and disappeared despitehis watchfulness. A new supply of food proved she had been near, butthat it would be hard to time her coming.
When she did come, the third time, an innocent snare discovered herpresence. It was just before day, and de Spain had so scattered smallobstacles--handfuls of gravel and little chips of rock--that shouldshe cross the ledge in the dark she could hardly escape rousing him.
The device betrayed her. "I'm awake," announced de Spain at once fromhis retreat. When she stopped at the words he could not see her; shehad flattened herself, standing, against a wall of the ledge. Hewaited patiently. "You give me no chance to thank you," he went onafter a pause. Nan, drawing nearer, put down a small parcel. "I don'tneed any thanks," she replied with calculated coolness. "I am hopingwhen you are well enough you will go away, quietly, in the night. Thatwill be the only way you can thank me."
"I shall be as glad to go as you can be to have me," rejoined deSpain. "But that won't be thanking you as I am going to. If you thinkyou can save my life and refuse my thanks as I mean to expressthem--you are mistaken. I will be perfectly honest. Lying out hereisn't just what I'd choose for comfort. But if by doing it I could seeyou once in two or three days----"
"You won't see me again."
"No news could be worse. And if I can't, I don't know how I'm going toget out at all. I've no horse--you know that. I can't stand on my footyet; if you had a light you might see for yourself. I think I showedyou my gun. If you could tell me where I am----"
He halted on the implied question. Nan took ample time to reply.
"Do you mean to tell me you don't know where you are?" she asked, andthere was a touch of vexed incredulity in her tone.
De Spain seemed unmoved by her scepticism. "I can't tell you anythingelse," he said simply. "You couldn't have any idea I crawled up herefor the fun of it."
"I've been trying to think," she returned, and he perceived in thehardness of her voice how at bay she felt in giving him the least bitof information, "whether I ought to tell you anything at all----"
"I couldn't very decently take any unfair advantage after what you'vedone, could I?"
"Then--you are in Morgan's Gap," she said swiftly, as if she wanted itoff her mind.
There was no movement of surprise, neither was there any answer. "Isupp
osed, when I found you here, you knew that," she added lessresolutely; the darkness and silence were plainly a strain.
"I know you are telling the truth," he responded at length. "But I canhardly believe it. That's the reason, of course, you _did_ find me. Irode a good many miles that night without knowing where I was or whatI was doing. I certainly never figured on winding up here. How could Iget in here without being stopped?"
"Everybody inside the Gap was outside hunting for you, I suppose."
"There isn't much use asking where I am, in the Gap. I never wasinside but once. I shouldn't know if you did tell me."
"You are at the foot of Music Mountain, about a mile from where Ilive."
"You must have thought I meant to raid your house. I didn't. I washit. I got mixed up in trying to get away. You want me out of here?"
"Very much."
"No more than I want to get out. Perhaps by to-morrow I could walk afew miles. I should have to assassinate somebody to get someammunition."
"It wouldn't be hard for you to do that, I presume."
Her words and her tone revealed the intensity of her dislike and thedepth of her distrust.
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, without resentment: "You areashamed already of saying that, aren't you?"
"No, I am not," she answered defiantly.
"Yes, you are. You know it isn't true. If you believed it you neverwould have brought food here to save my life."
"I brought it to save some of my own people from possible death atyour hands--to prevent another fight--to see if you hadn't manhoodenough after being helped, to go away, when you were able to move,peaceably. One cartridge might mean one life, dear to me."
"I know whose life you mean."
"You know nothing about what I mean."
"I know better than you know yourself. If I believed you, I shouldn'trespect you. Fear and mercy are two different things. If I thought youwere only afraid of me, I shouldn't think much of your aid. Listen--Inever took the life of any man except to defend my own----"
"No murderer that ever took anybody's life in this country ever saidanything but that."
"Don't class me with murderers."
"You are known from one end of the country to the other as a gunman."
He answered impassively: "Did these men who call me a gunman evertell you why I'm one?" She seemed in too hostile a mood to answer. "Iguess not," he went on. "Let me tell you now. The next time you hearme called a gunman you can tell them."
"I won't listen," she exclaimed, restive.
"Yes, you will listen," he said quietly; "you shall hear every word.My father brought sheep into the Peace River country. The cattlemenpicked on him to make an example of. He went out, unarmed, one nightto take care of the horses. My mother heard two shots. He didn't comeback. She went to look for him. He was lying under the corral gatewith a hole smashed through his jaw by a rifle-bullet that tore hishead half off." De Spain did not raise his voice nor did he hasten hiswords. "I was born one night six months after that," he continued. "Mymother died that night. When a neighbor's wife took me from her armand wrapped me in a blanket, she saw I carried the face of my fatheras my mother had seen it the night he was murdered. That," he said,"is what made me a 'gunman.' Not whiskey--not women--not cards--justwhat you've heard. And I'll tell you something else you may tell themen that call me a gunman. The man that shot down my father at hiscorral gate I haven't found yet. I expect to find him. For ten yearsI've been getting ready to find him. He is here--in these mountains. Idon't even know his name. But if I live, I'll find him. And when I do,I'll tear open his head with a soft bullet in the way he tore myfather's open. After I get through with that man"--he hesitated--"theymay call me whatever they like."
The faint ghostliness of the coming day, writing its warning in theeastern sky, the bitter chill of the dying night, the slow, hard,impassive utterance, the darkness in which she stood listening to anenemy she could not see, the loneliness and danger of her situationcombined to impress on the unwilling listener the picture of themurder, the tragic birth, and the mother's death. "You want me out ofthe Gap," de Spain concluded, his voice unchanged. "I want to get out.Come back, once more, in the daytime. I will see what I can do with myfoot by that time." He paused. "Will you come?"
She hesitated. "It would be too dangerous for me to come up here inthe daytime. Trouble would follow."
"Come at dusk. You know I am no murderer."
"I don't know it," she persisted stubbornly. It was her finalprotest.
"Count, some day, on knowing it."
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