by Grey, Zane
Pan strode off in the starlight, across the orchard, down along the murmuring stream to the cottonwood tree with the bench.
It was useless for him to try to sleep. To and fro he paced in the starlight. Alone now, with the urgent activities past for the time, he reverted to the grim and hateful introspection that had haunted his mind.
This once, however, the sinister strife in his soul, that strange icy clutch on his senses—the aftermath of instinctive horror following the death of a man by his hand—wore away before the mounting of a passion that had only waited.
It did not leap upon him unawares, like an enemy out of ambush. It grew as he walked, as his whirling thoughts straightened in a single line to—Lucy. She had betrayed him. She had broken his heart. What if she had thought him dead—sacrificed herself to save her father?—She had given herself to that dog Hardman. The thought was insupportable. "I hate her," he whispered. "She's made me hate her."
The hours passed, the stars moved across the heavens, the night wind ceased, the crickets grew silent, and the murmuring stream flowed on at Pan's feet. Spent and beaten he sat upon the bench. His love for Lucy had not been killed. It lived, it had grown, it was tremendous—and both pity and reason clamored that he be above jealousy and hate. After all there was excuse for Lucy. She was young, she had been driven by grief over his supposed death and fear for her father. But oh! The pity of it—of this hard truth against the sweetness and purity of his dream! Life and love were not what he had dreamed them as he had ridden the lonely ranges. He must suffer because he had left Lucy to fight her battles.
"I'll try to forget," he whispered huskily. "I've got to. But not yet. I can't do it yet.... We'll leave this country far behind. And some day we can go on with—with all we planned."
Pan went back to the barn and threw himself upon the hay, where exhausted brain and body sank to sleep and rest. It seemed that a voice and a rude hand tore away the sweet oblivion.
"Pard, are you daid?" came Blinky's voice, keen and full with newer note. "Sunup an' time to rustle. Your dad's heah an' he says breakfast is waitin'."
Pan rose and stretched. His muscles ached as though he had been beaten. How bright the sun! Night was gone and with it something dreadful.
"Pan, shore you're a tough lookin' cowboy this mawnin'," said Blinky. "Wash an' shave yourself like I did. Heah's my razor. There's a basin an' water up under the kitchen porch."
"Howdy, bridegroom," returned Pan with appreciative eyes on Blinky's shiny face and slick hair. "How's your wife?"
"Daid to the world," whispered Blinky, blushing red as a rose. "I took a peep. Gee! Pard, I hope she sleeps all day an' all night. Shore I'm scared fer her to wake."
"I don't blame you, cowboy. It'll be funny when she finds out she's got a boss."
"Pard, if we was away from this heah town I'd be happy, I swear. Wouldn't you?" returned Blinky shyly.
"Why, Blink, I believe I would," said Pan, and strode off toward the house.
He made himself presentable before anyone saw him. Then he waited for his father and Blinky, whom he heard talking. When they came up he joined them. Wild horses could not have dragged him into the house alone. As they entered the kitchen Bobby let out a yell and made for him. That loosened a strain for Pan and he picked up the lad. When he faced his mother it was with composure that belied the state of his feelings. She appeared to be in a blaze of excitement, and at once he realized that all she had needed was his return, safe and sound. Then he heard Alice's voice and Lucy's in reply. As he set Bobby down, thrilling all over, the girls entered the kitchen. Alice's reply to his greeting was at once bright and shy. Lucy halted in the doorway, with a hand on her breast. Her smile, slow and wistful, seemed to blot out traces of havoc in her face. But her eyes were dark purple, a sign of strong emotion. Pan's slight inclination, unaccompanied by word of greeting, was as black a pretense as he had ever been guilty of. Sight of her had shot him through and through with pangs of bitter mocking joy. But he gave no sign. During the meal he did not look at her again.
"Dad, have you got everything we'll need?" queried Pan presently.
"I guess so," replied Smith. "You can start loadin' the wagons. An' by the time two of them are done we'll have everythin' packed."
"Blink can drive one wagon, you another, and I'll take the third till we get out to Snyder's. Then we'll need another driver, for it'll take two of us to handle the wild horses."
"No, we won't," replied his father. "Your mother an' Lucy can drive as well as I. Son, I reckon we don't want anybody except our own outfit."
"I'd like that myself," admitted Pan thoughtfully. "If you've got good gentle teams maybe Mother an' Lucy can take turns. We'll try it, anyhow."
"I'll help you hitch up," said Smith, following Pan out. "Son, do you look for any trouble this mornin'?"
"Lord no. I'm not looking for trouble," replied Pan. "I've sure had enough."
"Huh!" ejaculated Blinky. "Your dad means any backfire from Marco. Wal, I say there'll be nothin'. All the same we want to move, pronto."
"I'd like to hear what happened after we left," said Pan.
"Somebody will tell us," returned Smith.
They had reached the end of the arbor when Lucy's voice called after them: "Pan—please wait."
He turned to see her coming, twisting her apron in nervous hands. Pan's father and Blinky kept on toward the barn. Lucy came hurriedly, unevenly, pale, with parted lips, and eyes that held him.
"Mother said you knew but—I must tell you—myself," she said brokenly, as she halted close to him. "Day before yesterday—those men brought word you'd been—killed in a fight over wild horses. It broke my heart.... I'd have taken my own life but for my father. I didn't care what happened.... Dick pressed me hard. Father begged me to save him from prison.... So I—I married Dick."
"Yes, I know—I figured it out that way," returned Pan in strange thick utterance. "You didn't need to tell me."
"Why, Pan, you—you seem different," she said, as if bewildered. "Your look—your voice ... oh, dear. I know yesterday was awful. It must have driven you mad."
"By heaven, it did!" muttered Pan under his breath.
"But you—you forgive me?" she faltered, reaching to touch him with a shaking hand. The gesture, so supplicating, so tender, the dark soft hunger of her eyes, the sweetness of her then roused a tumult in him. How could she look at him like that? How dared she have such love light in her eyes?
"Forgive you for?—" he cried in fierce passion. But he could not put into words what she had done. "I meant to kill that dog, Dick Hardman. But I didn't.... Forgive you—" he broke off, unable to go on.
She was slow to grasp his intimation, though not his fury. Suddenly her eyes dilated in horror. Then a great wave of scarlet blood swept over her white neck and face. Pan saw in it the emblem of her shame. With a rending of his heart he swung away and left her.
He plunged into the work at hand, and during the next couple of hours recovered from the shock of resisting Lucy's appeal. He hated himself for the passion he could not subdue. When, however, it had slunk away for the time being, he began to wonder at her innocence and simplicity. He could not understand her.
Presently his father and Blinky hunted him up with news of strong purport plain in their faces.
"Son, Marco is with you to a man!"
"Pard, I guess mebbe I didn't hev them hombres figgered?"
"What happened? Out with it," replied Pan sharply.
"Evans drove out bringin' stuff I bought yesterday," returned his father. "He was full as a tick of news. By some miracle, only the Yellow Mine burned. It was gutted, but the bucket brigade saved the houses on each side.... Hardman's body was found burned to a crisp. It was identified by a ring. An' his dance-hall girl was found dead too, burned most as bad as he.... Accordin' to Evans most everybody in Marco wants to shake hands with Panhandle Smith."
The covered wagons wound slowly down the hill toward Snyder's pasture. Pan, leading Blink's h
orse, held to the rear. The day, in some respects, had been as torturing to him as yesterday—but with Marco far behind and the open road ahead, calling, beckoning, the strain began to lessen.
At the pasture gate the drivers halted the wagon teams, waiting for Pan to come up. Gus had opened the wide-barred gate, and now stood there with a grin of relief and gladness.
"Drive in," shouted Pan from behind. "We'll camp here tonight."
"Howdy thar, you ole wild-hoss night wrangler," yelled Blinky to Gus.
"Howdy, yourself," was the reply. "You can bet your roll that I never expected to see you agin. What'd you do to Marco?"
They drove in along the west fence, where a row of trees shaded the still hot sun.
"Gus, I see our wild horses are still keeping you company," remarked Pan, as he loosened the cinch of his saddle.
"Shore. But they ain't so wild no more. I've fooled around with them for two days now," replied Gus.
Pan smacked Sorrel on the flank: "There! Go take a look at your rival, Whitefoot." But the sorrel hung around camp. He had been spoiled by an occasional nose bag of grain. Pan lent a hand all around, and took note of the fact that Blinky lingered long around his wagon. Pan peeped over the wagon side. Louise lay on her side with face exposed. It was pale, with eyelids tight. In sleep her features betrayed how life had wronged her.
"Reckon you're wise, Blink, to keep your wagon away from the others like this," said Pan. "Because when your wife wakes up there's liable to be hell. Call me pronto."
"Pard, you're shore she ain't in a stupor or somethin'?" queried Blinky, apprehensively.
"Blink, you know she was ill for ten days. Then she drank a lot. Reckon she's knocked out. But there's nothing to worry about, except she'll jump the traces when she comes to."
"You mean when she finds out—I—she—we're married?"
"That's what, Pard Blink. I wish you didn't have to tell her."
"Me? My Gawd, I cain't tell her," replied Blinky, in consternation. "Shore you gotta do that."
"All right, Blink. I'll save what little hair you have left," returned Pan, good humoredly.
He walked out to take a look at the horses, which were scattered on the far side of the pasture. They could not be closely approached, yet were not nearly so wild as he had expected them to be. The saddle and wagon horses grazed among them. The blue roan looked vastly better for two days' rest. Whitefoot was a noble stallion. Sight of Little Bay brought keen pain to Pan. What boundless difference between his state of mind when he had caught that beautiful little horse and what it was now!
Pan went back to the campfire. Supper was in progress, with the capable Mrs. Smith bustling about. Lucy and Alice were assisting. Pan stole a glance at Lucy. Her face was flushed from the wind and sun; she wore a white apron; her sleeves were rolled up to show round strong arms. Bobby and his two puppies were much in the way.
"Pan, how is Mrs. Somers?" inquired his mother solicitously.
"Who?" queried Pan, puzzled.
"Why, your partner's wife."
"Oh, Blinky! ... Gee, I'd clean forgot his right name," laughed Pan, mentally kicking himself. "She's still sound asleep. I told Blinky not to wake her. She looked white and worn out."
"But she'll starve," interposed Lucy, with questioning eyes on Pan. Indeed their meaning had no relation to her words. "You men don't know anything. Won't you let me wake her?"
"Thanks. Better let her alone till tomorrow," replied Pan briefly.
Presently there came the call to supper, which had been laid upon a new tarpaulin spread on the ground. The men flopped down, and sat cross-legged, each with silent or vociferous appreciation of that generous repast.
"Shades of the grub line!" ejaculated Blinky. "Am I ridin' or dreamin'?"
"Mother, this is heaven for a cowboy. And think, we'll be three weeks on the road," added Pan.
"But, son, our good things to eat won't last that long," she replied, much gratified by his compliment.
"Aw, the good Lord shore remembered me when he throwed me in with this outfit," declared the usually reticent Gus.
Pan observed that both Alice and his mother strictly avoided serving him with those things that had to be carried hot from the campfire. They let Lucy do it. Pan did not look up at her, and murmured his thanks in monosyllables. Once her hand touched his and the contact was like a galvanizing current. For the moment he could not go on eating.
During the sunset hour Pan helped grease the wagon wheels, something that had been neglected, and had retarded their progress. Other tasks used up the time until dark. Bobby got himself spanked by falling out of the wagon after he had been put to bed.
It was after nightfall when Pan heard Blinky's call. He hurried over to the wagon, where he found his comrade tremendously excited.
"Pard, she's waked up," he whispered.
Pan strode to the wagon. There was enough light for him to see the girl sitting up, with hands pressed to her head.
"Hello, Louie," he said gently.
"Where the hell am I?" she replied huskily, dropping her hands to stare at him.
"On the way to Arizona."
"Well, if it isn't handsome Panhandle ... and Blinky!"
"Howdy—Louie," said Blinky fearfully.
"I've been drunk?" she queried.
"Reckon you have—a little," replied Pan.
"And you boys have kidnapped me?" she went on.
"I'm afraid that's so, Louie."
"Get me a drink. Not water! My head's bursting. And help me out of this haymow."
She threw aside the blanket that partially covered her and got to her knees. Pan lifted her out of the wagon. Then he ran off toward camp to get a flask. Upon returning he found Blinky trying to put a blanket round Louise's shoulders. She threw it off.
"Wait till I cool off," she said. "Panhandle, did you get it?—I'm shaky, all right.... Thanks. Some day I'll take my last drink."
"Louie, I hope that will be soon," rejoined Pan.
"You know I hate whisky.... Oh, my head!—And my legs are cramped. Let me walk a little."
Pan drew Blinky aside in the gloom. "She hasn't begun to think yet. Reckon you'd better stay away from her. Let her come back to the wagon."
"Pard, shore she took our kidnappin' her all right," whispered Blinky, hopefully.
"Blink, I'll bet a million she'll be glad—after it all comes out," responded Pan.
Presently Louise interrupted their whispered colloquy. "Help me up. I'm sick—and weak."
They lifted her back into the wagon and covered her. In the pale starlight her eyes looked unnaturally big and black.
"No use—to lie," she said drowsily, her head rolling. "I'm glad to leave—Marco.... Take me anywhere."
Then her eyes closed. Again Pan drew Blinky away into the gloom.
"It's the way I figured," whispered Pan swiftly. "She'll never remember what happened."
"Thank Gawd fer thet," breathed Blinky.
They found the campfire deserted except for Gus and Pan's father. Evidently Pan's advent interrupted a story that had been most exciting to Gus.
"Son, I—I was just tellin' Gus all I know about what come off yesterday," explained Smith, frankly, though with some haste. "But there are some points I'd sure like cleared up for myself."
Pan had expected this, and had fortified himself against the inevitable.
"Well, get it over then once and for all," he replied, not too civilly.
"You come damn near buttin' right into the weddin'!" ejaculated Smith, with a sense of what dramatic possibility had just been missed.
Pan, whose back had been turned to the campfire light, suddenly whirled as if on a pivot.
"What?" he cried. Then there seemed to be a cessation of all his faculties.
"Why, son, you needn't jump out of your boots," returned the father, somewhat offended. "Lucy was married to Hardman in the stage office just before you got there. Fact was, she'd just walked out to get in the stage when you came.... Now, I was
only sayin' how funny it'd been if you had got there sooner."
"Who—told—you—that?"
"Lucy told me. An' she said tonight she didn't believe you knew," returned his father.
There was a blank silence. Pan slowly turned away from the light.
"No. I had an idea—she'd been married—days," replied Pan in queer strangled voice.
"You should have asked some questions," said Smith bluntly. "It was a damn unfortunate affair, but it mustn't be made worse for Lucy than it actually was.... She was Dick Hardman's wife for less than five minutes before you arrived."
Without another word Pan stalked away into the darkness. He heard his father say: "Bet that's what ailed him—the darned idiot!"
Pan gained the pasture fence under the dark trees, and he grasped it tightly as if his hold on life had been shaken. The shock of incredulous amaze passed away, leaving him in the grip of joy and gratitude and remorse. How vastly different was this vigil under the stars!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was Pan who routed out the campers next morning when the first rose of dawn flushed the clear-cut horizon line.
He had the firewood collected, and the saddle horses in for their grain before Blinky presented himself. Wild eyed, indeed, was the cowboy.
"Pard," he whispered, huskily, dragging Pan aside some paces, "the cyclone's busted."
"Yes?" queried Pan in both mirth and concern.
"I was pullin' on my boots when Louise pokes her head above the wagon an' says: 'Hey, you bow-legged gurl snatcher, where's my clothes?'
"'What clothes?' I answers. An' she snaps out, 'Mine. Didn't you fetch my clothes?'
"'Louie,' I says, 'we shore forgot them an' they burned up with all the rest of the Yellow Mine. An' if you want to know, my dear, I'm darn glad of it.'
"Then, Pan, she began to cuss me, an' I jumps up mad, but right dignified an' says, 'Mrs. Somers, I'll require you to stop usin' profanity.'