by Max Brand
“Brr!” shivered Gloria.
“Gloria,” said her father, “tomorrow you start for New York, and from there you go on to Paris. The Swains are there now. They’ll take care of you.”
“I don’t give a rap about Paris,” said Gloria.
“Gloria!” he exclaimed.
“I don’t care if I never see it,” she insisted. “I’m going to stay here until I’ve seen the - Indian - face to face.”
He bit his lip.
“I’m going out to talk to Bartlett about something that’s just occurred to me,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment or two and look in to see if you’re quieter. I really am afraid that you’re growing hysterical, my dear. Good-bye for a moment. And, of course, remember that there’s no danger. No matter what these credulous townsmen may think, it’s impossible for a man to transform himself into thin air and blow across the line of fires they’ve built.”
He went out, and she heard his footsteps go down the hall. Then Gloria picked up the book again, settled herself firmly beside a light, and made her eyes follow the print. In a moment she was thoroughly into the story, and when the door clicked behind her she said quietly: “Is everything all right, Dad?”
And then she jerked up her head and stared at the window, not daring to look behind her, for whoever had entered the room had come with a footfall as silent as the passage of the wind. There had been merely the stirring of a draft through her hair and the light click of the turning lock. Someone had entered and locked the door behind him. She was alone with the man.
CHAPTER XXV
IN THAT MOMENT of horror, she looked to the revolver which lay beside her on the table. No, if she reached for that, the Indian - if it were indeed he - would bound upon her from behind. But it could not be he. It must be John Themis who had returned so quickly.
And she forced herself to speak: “Dad!”
But the voice was a harsh, low whisper. Suddenly, hysteria poured through her and supplied the place of strength. She leaped to her feet, scooped the gun from the table, whirled, and presented it at a tall man who stood just inside the door, a huge man, with sun-faded, brown hair which swept in a mass down to the nape of his neck, where it had been sawed off carelessly with a knife, a man whose skin was brown as an Indian’s, indeed, but whose eyes were a bright and unmistakable blue. He was dressed in a loose, buckskin shirt; rather, it was a buckskin sack with a hole through which his head was passed, and other holes where the sun-blackened, sinewy arms went through and were exposed to the shoulder. His trousers were of the same home-made pattern. They fitted close about the ankles. And on the man’s feet were soft moccasins.
That was what she saw in the first wild glance. Then weakness swept through all her body. She slumped back into the chair. The gun slipped from her hand to the floor unheeded. It was a man of her own blood, a white man! No Indian looked out upon the world through such clear, blue eyes. But, as one terror left her, another took its place. Why had he come, and what would he do?
She scanned his face with a feverish interest, as one sweeps through the denouement of a strange story. And she saw nobly molded features, a great, spacious forehead, an aquiline nose, a square, broad chin. Between his eyes there was incised a single deep wrinkle which seemed to say that this man had known pain and sorrow. As for his age, she guessed him at first to be thirty. But at a second glance something told her he was younger, much younger. Yet how could he be, if for six years he had defied all the manhunters of the Turnbull valley?
He had not stirred, meanwhile. He had not spoken. But he stood there with fire in his eyes staring into her face. Then his glance lowered. He blushed through all the deep coats of tan, and raised his hand.
She saw for the first time that it was filled with moss, and on top of the moss was a cluster of pale blue flowers such as she had never seen before.
“I knew that there were no flowers in this place,” he said, “so I brought these, but it was a long way, and they died. Perhaps they need the snow.”
Fear had been like a cold mantle on Gloria, but when she heard his voice, when she saw the flowers in those strong hands, the chill left her. Instead, she was poured full of excitement like a brimmed cup.
He crossed the room. Even in that moment she noted that his step made no sound on the floor, no creaking of the boards. He dropped to a knee before her as she shrank away, and offered the withering blossoms.
“You are afraid,” he said sadly. “But I tell you truly that they can do you no harm. I found them by a stream of snow water. There was a thick cluster of them. They were like water themselves reflecting the sky. You see what a pale blue?”
“I am not afraid - of them,” murmured Gloria. “May I take them?”
“Yes, yes,” he said eagerly. “And if you close your eyes and look into the darkness hard you will see the mountain where they grew. It is just below timber line. The snow is still beneath the trees. The air is sweet with the pines. And the bead of the mountain goes up above into the sky. At night, it touches the stars.”
She took the moss into her lap. The flowers were faded indeed, but all that she could see of them was a mist of blue, a pale blue like when the sun is in the middle of heaven.
He knelt still with his hand outstretched. His glance went up from the blossoms to her eyes. And the shock of those meeting glances sent a tingle through her.
“Who are you? What are you?” said Gloria.
“I am Tom Parks,” he answered.
It was like giving the free wind a name. She could not hold back a faint, excited smile.
“I have heard them speak your name near the camp fire,” he said. “You are Gloria.”
She nodded.
“It is a good name to say over and over,” he said gravely. “I have said it in the middle of the night, aloud. It brings up your face.”
A tide of deep crimson swept over the face of Gloria. She set her teeth, but still her heart fluttered.
“Has that angered you?” he asked, and all the time his glance was prying anxiously at her face.
She shook her head, for at that moment she could not have spoken.
“You see,” he went on in that same musical, deep voice, “I cannot tell what words will do. For ten years I have not spoken to a man or a woman or even a child, so I cannot tell what words will do. I cannot tell what words should be used to make people happy. But if I knew - ah, if I knew, Gloria - I should take a thousand and a thousand words. I should make them into songs. I should sing them for you until you smiled and smiled and smiled!”
He had thrown back his head, and the great, strong throat trembled with his emotion. And Gloria looked on him with a sort of frightened wonder and scared delight. Outside the houses were the voices of men who were hunting him. They would snuff out his life like a candle. And here he was making love to her a dozen feet from them, and speaking as she had never before heard men speak. At eighteen Gloria had seen wise men grow silly. A pretty face performs strange feats of alchemy.
“But, since I cannot talk,” said the wild man, “I have brought something you may understand better than my words. It has made me happy. Perhaps it will make you happy, too.”
Then he took from a leather pouch at his side a little, long-tailed tree squirrel. The instant it was liberated, the tiny creature ran from his hand up his arms, climbed the ends of his hair, and sat on his head, looking at her out of twinkling eyes. Gloria caught her breath.
“He has a small head, but he is very wise,” said Tom Parks. “He brings me a present every day out of the trees. He is never quiet. He is always doing something. But, when you whistle like this, he will always stop and come to you.”
He whistled softly, a low, faint note and the squirrel whirled, climbed to his shoulder, darted down onto his hand, and stood up looking into his face. Gloria clasped her hands with delight. Girls at eighteen may be very wise, but, after all, they are only girls of eighteen.
“Call him,” said Tom, entranced with happiness as he saw her pleasure
.
She tried the whistle. And she learned the note almost at once. The tree squirrel twisted about, eyed her with an anxious interest, and then ran down the leg of Tom Parks and climbed up her dress to her lap. There he sat up and regarded her with deep interest. Tom Parks gave her a pine nut. She offered it to the little fellow between the tips of her fingers, and he took it in his paws like a child and sat up peeling the brittle shell away and then nibbling the kernel. The tip of his tail was curled up over his head.
“When winter comes,” said Tom Parks, “and you are alone in the evenings; when the wind is shouting through the mountains and the cave is cold in spite of the fire, you will be glad to have him. He will make you smile.”
“But how can I take him?” said Gloria. “You will be lonely and unhappy without him.”
“No, no,” he protested. “You must see that if I know he is with you I shall be ten times happier, for when you see him, you will think of me. Is that true?”
“I could not help it,” said Gloria.
He laughed silently in his happiness.
“I knew that! I knew that!” he exclaimed.
A door closed in the distance. Instantly, he was on his feet, and his bigness, his alertness, alarmed her.
“I must go now,” said he. “Your father will be coming back. No, that is not he!”
He had listened intently while he spoke, and, though she heard nothing at first, she presently made out a footfall going through the house. Gloria slipped between Tom and the door.
“You must not go!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you see that the house is surrounded by men? And beyond them there is another circle around the town! How you came through them tonight, I can’t imagine!”
“I didn’t come into town tonight,” he replied quietly. “I have been in this house since yesterday.”
Gloria gasped.
“In this house!”
“I was afraid to wait and see you yesterday,” said Tom Parks, “so I’ve been lying in a room upstairs where no one comes. There were no trails in the dust on the floor when I went in. I guessed that no one would come while I was there. And I have lain there trying to make myself brave to come and see you.”
“You were afraid - of me?” said Gloria.
“I should have known,” said he humbly, “that because you are so beautiful you are kind, also. But I have seen men do strange things. How could I be sure that a woman is different? You will not believe what I have seen men do!”
“Tell me,” said Gloria.
With all her heart she wanted to bid him begone, or else find some way of sheltering him there and warning him of his danger. But to part with him was like, parting with a rare treasure which may be held for a moment but not kept. The time of their meeting was like bubbles of foam, melting away every instant, never to be repeated.
“I cannot tell you everything,” he said, “but once I saw a man tie a horse to a tree because the horse was tired and could not pull the wagon up the hill. He beat that horse with a whip. He beat that horse until the blood came - and the horse was helpless!”
“Oh,” cried Gloria, “how terrible! And what did you do?”
He stiffened and knotted his hands, and in that gesture there was a connotation of Herculean power.
“I climbed into the tree,” he said. “Then I dropped out of the branches. I tied him, and I beat him with his own whip!”
She had heard that story with many strange embroiderings.
“Once,” he went on, “I saw a hunter come to a mountain sheep that had broken its leg in a fall. He stabbed it in the throat and watched it bleed to death, slowly, slowly!”
“Ah,” murmured Gloria in horror, “what did you do then?”
“I turned and ran away,” said he, his face dark with rage and disgust. “I did not dare to stay near, because I wanted to take him in my hands and kill him. I wanted to kill him little by little, as he was killing the sheep! But there are other things I have seen men do. I have a horse who comes to me when I speak to him. He follows me when I walk. He is sad when I leave him, and when I come again he sees me at a great distance and comes to me with much neighing and calling. He dances around me. And then he hunts in my pouch for something I have brought. He will run with me until his heart breaks and still keep his ears pricking to show that his love for me is greater than his weariness!” He paused. Tears were in his eyes.
“But that horse,” he said savagely, “a man had tied to a post and was about to shoot. That very horse - Peter! Can you believe that?”
She could not answer. His wild anger, his profound pity, and his overwhelming love, were like unknown countries to her. She was amazed.
“But, when I had seen men do such things,” he said, “how could I tell what even you would do - Gloria?” He made a little pause before her name and after it, and he spoke the name itself with an intonation that made it music. She was looking into a mirror and seeing herself transformed, glorified.
“I lay by the fire,” he said, “and listened to your voice. It was to me - to me - like the falling of fragrant flowers. And again, it was like a look up, through the trees, into the sky, into the stars. And still I was afraid that when I met you I would find you like those men. But the moment I came inside this room and into your presence I knew the truth. I knew that you were as good as you are beautiful.”
“Hush!” said Gloria and raised her hand.
She saw him wince. Then he stood statue-still.
“I knew it,” he murmured at last. “Words cannot say what I wish them to say. They are made out of breath. I speak and speak and speak, but I take nothing from what is within me. There is still more than ever within me - like all that lies between two great mountains and all that lies beyond them!”
“I cannot listen to you!” said Gloria, faintly.
“I have made you unhappy?”
“Not - not unhappy, but too happy, too sadly happy. Do you see?”
“I shall not try to understand,” he said humbly.
She passed a hand across her forehead to wipe the spell away, but, when she looked at him again, it was unchanged. He still seemed like a young god out of another world, a world lost to all except himself, into which she could not follow him.
“I have found the thing at last!” she said suddenly. “I shall keep you here in this room - yes, in this very room - until morning. Then, when they have left the fires, you will have a better chance to get away.”
He looked at her in amazement.
“You don’t know them, then,” he said. “You don’t know these men. They hate me. But how have I harmed them? Still, they hate me. If they knew you helped me, they would kill you, Gloria, even you!”
“They would never touch a woman, not the worst of them,” said Gloria.
But he shook his head.
“I have seen them torture dumb animals,” he said, “and a woman can speak. Men who kill sheep would kill women. I know! And so I leave you, Gloria, before they come. But I shall come again!”
“You must not. They watch me in order to catch you. And since Dick Walker was killed - oh, I know that you killed him because he deserved death, but the others cannot understand.”
“I did not kill that man,” he said calmly.
She stared at him. But could any man lie with such a steady face?
“They found him dead,” she said slowly. “And they found the trail of a horse and a bear near him.”
“I came to that place and saw him on his back with a hole in his forehead,” said Tom with a shudder. “I went away quickly. It is a terrible thing to see a dead man. I have seen two!”
“Ah,” murmured Gloria, “it is true, then! He was killed by some other man.”
“Yes.”
“Then,” she cried in excitement, “don’t you see what you must do? You must go back to that place. You must find the murderer. You must bring him to Turnbull. That is the only serious crime they can charge against you. Money can settle all the rest, and I have money.�
�
He was bewildered, fumbling for her meaning.
“Do you mean,” he said at last, “that if I find him and bring him here, they will no longer hunt me?”
“I mean that!” said Gloria. “And if -”
She stopped, for a familiar step came hastily down the hall, stopped at her door. The knob was turned under his hand.
“What the deuce, Gloria!” cried the father. “Have you locked yourself in?”
CHAPTER XXVI
AND GLORIA WAS rooted to the floor with horror. She should not have allowed him to stay until the trap had closed. Before she could rally her wits, Tom Parks turned to her with a smile and a gesture which, if it meant anything, declared that there was no serious danger immediately ahead. She saw him turn the key in the lock. The door opened. Then, suddenly, fear for her father leaped into her brain. There was a shrill, involuntary cry of warning, but what happened came before Themis could understand and defend himself.
As he stepped into the room, he was seized from the side, pitched headlong to the floor on his face with as much ease as though he had been a child, and Tom Parks, leaping into the hall, paused to turn the lock from the outside. She heard it click. Then John Hampton Themis sprang to his feet with his revolver in his hand, bewildered and furious. He cast at his daughter one baffled glance. Then he leaped for the door.
When he found it locked, his shout of warning rang through the house. Next, a bullet from his revolver shattered the lock, and he burst into the hall.
As for Tom Parks, he had not fled headlong down the hall. He turned into the door of the room next to that of Gloria. He found a window open and stood beside it, waiting. Beyond the window he could see armed men standing regarding the house with a sober interest, for they had half heard the cry of Gloria. But, when the revolver shot of Themis was heard, then the crash of the door as it was flung open, and last his shout of rage and alarm in the hall, they waited no longer outside the house but rushed pell-mell around the corner to enter it and get at the root of the trouble.