Mary Harris mistook Beulah's emotion for natural sympathy over a suffering creature, and hurried to the kitchen. Mrs. Arthurs was whispering with her husband in the hall, but a moment later joined Mary at the range.
Then Beulah entered the room. The policeman was speaking to Arthurs. "I must go into town now with my prisoner," he was saying. "I will send out a doctor at once, and in the meantime I know you will do everything possible."
Beulah turned her eyes to the bed. A man was lying there, and an old man was sitting beside it. At the second glance she recognized him, but in an instant she had herself under control. She walked with a steady step to the bed and looked for a full minute in her brother's face. Then she looked at her father.
"What have you done to him?" she said.
He threw out his hand feebly. "You do well to ask me that," he said. "I take all the blame." He raised his face slowly until his eyes met hers. They were not the eyes she had known. They were the eyes of a man who had been crushed, who had been powdered between the wheels of Fate. The old masterful quality, the old indomitable will that stirred her anger and admiration were gone, and in their place were coals of sorrow and ashes of defeat. For a moment she held back; then, with arms outstretched, she fell upon her father's breast.
And then he felt his strength return. He drew her to him as all that remained in the world; crushed her to him; then, very gently, released her a little…He found his fingers threading her fine hair, as they had loved to do when she was a little child.
She sank to her knees beside him, and at last she looked up in his face. "Forgive me, my father," she whispered.
He kissed her forehead and struggled with his voice. "We all make mistakes, Beulah," he said. "I have made mine this twenty-five years, and there—there is the price!"
His words turned Beulah's thought to Allan, and the necessity for action brought her to her feet. "We must save him," she cried. "We must, and we will! Is the policeman gone? We must have the best doctors from Calgary." Looking about she found that Grey and Arthurs had left the room. They had slipped out to leave father and child alone with their emotion, but she found them at the front of the house.
She seized the policeman by the arm. "You must get us a doctor—the best doctor in the country," she pled. "We will spare nothing—"
"My guest, Miss Harris, Sergeant Grey," said Arthurs, and the policeman deftly converted her grasp into a handshake.
"Mr. Arthurs has told me the injured man is your brother. He shall want for nothing. And the sooner I go the sooner you will have help."
"Your prisoner seems docile enough," Arthurs remarked, as the policeman swung on to his horse.
"Rather a puzzler," said Grey. "Doesn't look the part, but was caught in the act, or next thing to it, and his revolver was found lying on the spot where the young man was shot. By the way, I had almost forgotten. One of the robbers was shot and killed. I had to leave his body, but I wish you would send a man up to stay about the place until I can get a coroner out here."
"Robbers, did you say?" demanded Beulah. "Then it was for robbery?"
"Yes, Miss Harris. It seems your father had a large sum of money on him. We have found no trace of it yet, but it is not likely that more than two were implicated, and as one was shot on the spot this other must know where the money is. We will bring it out of him in due time."
So saying he rode down to the gate, thanked the cowboy who had been keeping an eye on the prisoner, and the two started off at a smart trot down the trail.
CHAPTER XIX
PRISONERS OF FATE
Beulah returned to the house to minister to her brother, but Mrs.
Arthurs stopped her on the stairs.
"Your mother knows," she said. "They are both in the room with
Allan."
Her first impulse was to rush in and complete the family circle, but some fine sense restrained her. For distraction she plunged into the task of preparing breakfast.
At length they came down. Beulah saw them on the stairs, and knew that the gulf was bridged.
"Allan is better," her mother said, when she saw the girl. "He has asked for you." And the next minute Beulah was on her knees by the white bed, caressing the locks that would fall over the pale forehead.
"How did I get here, Beulah?" he whispered. "How did we all get here?
What has happened?"
"You have been hurt, Allan," she said. "You have been badly hurt, but you are going to get well again. When you are stronger we will talk about it, but at present you must be still and rest."
"Lie still and rest," he repeated. "How good it is to lie still and rest!"
Later in the day the pain in his wound began to give much discomfort, but he was able to swallow some porridge with pure cream, and his breath came easily. His father stayed about the house, coming every little while to look in upon son and daughter, and as Allan's great constitution gave evidence of winning the fight a deep happiness came upon John Harris. He was able to sleep for a short time, and in the afternoon suggested a walk with his wife. Beulah saw that they were arm in arm as they disappeared in the trees by the river.
"I haven't told you all yet," Harris said to her. "I have done even worse than you suppose, but in some way it doesn't seem so bad to-day. Last night I was in Gethsemane."
It was strange to hear a word suggestive of religion from his lips. Harris had not renounced religion; he had merely been too busy for it. But this word showed that his mind had been travelling back over old tracks.
"And to-day we are in Olivet," she answered, tenderly. "What matters if—if everything's all right?"
"If only Allan—," he faltered.
"Allan will get well," she said. "When he could withstand the first shock he will get well. Of course he must have attention, but he is in the right place for that."
"The Arthurses are wonderful people," he ventured, after a pause.
"Mary, they have found something that we missed."
"But we have found it now John. We are going to take time to live.
That is where we made our mistake."
There was another pause, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the rushing of the river.
"Beulah was right," he said, at last. "Beulah is a wonderful girl, and a beautiful."
"She will not be wanting to go back home with us," said the mother.
"So much the better. Mary, Mary, we have no home to go back to!"
She looked at him with a sudden puzzled, half-frightened expression.
"No home, John? No home? You don't mean that?"
He nodded and turned his face away. "I said I hadn't told you all," he managed at length…"I sold the farm."
She was sitting on a fallen log, very trim, and grey, and small, but she seemed suddenly to become smaller and greyer still.
"Sold the old farm," she repeated, mechanically.
"Yes, I sold the old farm," he said again, as if finding some delight in goading himself with the repetition. "I thought I saw a chance to make a lot of money if only I had some ready cash to turn in my hand, and I sold it. I thought I would be rich and then I would be happy. But they took the money last night. They found out about it some way, and took it, and nearly killed our boy. Mary, you worked hard all your life, and to-day you have nothing. I brought you to this."
She looked with unseeing eyes through the trees at the fast-running water. Her thoughts were with the old home, with the ideals they had cherished when they founded it, with the hardships and the sorrow, and the sickness and the pain, and the joy that had hallowed it as no other spot in all the universe—the place where their first love had nursed them in its tenderness, where they had sat hand in hand in the gathering dusk, drinking the ripple of the water and the whirr of the wild duck's wing; where she had gone down into the valley of the shadow and their little children had come into their arms. And it was gone. He had sold it. Without so much as by-your-leave from the partner of his labours and his life he had sold it and left them
destitute.
She saw it all, and for the moment her heart shrank within her. But she saw, too, the futility of it all. She might have upbraided him; she might have returned in part the sorrows he had forced upon her, for he was wounded now and could not strike back. But she rose and stretched her arms toward him.
"You said I had nothing, John. You are wrong. I have you. I have everything!"
…"And it was to you, beloved, to you, a woman of such great soul, that I could do this thing…I should be utterly wretched…But I'm not." He spoke slowly and deliberately, as one having ample time, and with the diction of earlier years. "I should be scouring the valleys with a troop of men, hunting for our money. But I'm not. It seems such a puny thing, it's hardly worth the while—except for the happiness it might bring to you, and Beulah."…
They sat long in the sunshine of the warm autumn afternoon, living again through sweet, long-forgotten days, and already planning for their future. Harris would again exercise homestead right, and with Allan to take up land alongside they should have comfort and happiness. They would go back to the beginning; they would start over again; and this time they would not stray from the path.
When they returned to the house it was almost evening, and they found the doctor from town busy over Allan. "Would have killed nine men out of ten," he told Harris, quite frankly; "but this boy is the tenth. He's badly hurt, but he'll pull through, if we can arrest any infection. His constitution and his clean blood will save him."
Before the doctor left Arthurs inquired if the police had any further details of the crime. Harris appeared to have lost interest in everything except the members of his family.
"Quite a mystery," said the doctor. "I understand one of the robbers was shot, and I will go on up from here to make an examination, as coroner. To-morrow the police will bring out a jury, and a formal verdict will be returned. A systematic search will also be undertaken to recover the money, as I understand that you"—turning to Harris—"suffered a heavy financial loss in addition to the injury to your son. Of course, it is impossible to say how many took part in the affair, but it is not likely the outlaws numbered more than two, in which case they are both accounted for. The one captured had no money to speak of in his possession, but he may have cached it somewhere, and when he sees the rope before him it will be likely to make him talk. They seem to have a pretty straight case against him. Not only was he captured practically in the act, but they have another important clue. He owns up to his name frankly enough, and it seems the revolver found on the scene of the crime had his initials, 'J. T.'—Jim Travers, cut in the grip. In fact, he admits the revolver is—. What's wrong, Miss Harris? Are you ill?"
Beulah's breath had stopped at the mention of Travers' name, and she staggered to a chair. Harris, too, was overcome.
"We knew him down East," Beulah explained, when she had somewhat recovered her composure. "I could not have thought it possible!"
"I didn't think he would have carried it that far," said Harris, at length, speaking very slowly and sadly. "Jim, Jim, you've made a worse mistake than mine."
Mary learned of the disclosure in a few minutes, and followed Beulah upstairs.
"You poor child!" she said, as she overtook her daughter.
"It's not me," she shot back. "It's Jim. He must be saved, some way.
It's impossible to think—I won't think it, no matter what they say!
Let them find what they like!…But he's in a hole, and we've got to
get him out."
The mother shook her head with some recollection of the blindness of love. And yet her own heart refused to accept any idea of guilt on the part of Travers.
"I want to be alone, mother," said Beulah. "I want to be alone, to think. I'm going down by the river."
As she strode rapidly through the paths in the cotton-woods the girl gradually became conscious of one dominating impulse in her maze of emotions. She must see Jim. She must see him at once. She must see him alone. There were things to be said that needed—that admitted—no witness. She knew that. Arthurs or one of the men would willingly ride to town for her, or with her, but this was a task for her alone. They must know nothing until it was over.
Outwardly calm, but inwardly burning with, impatience, she returned to the house and went through the form of eating supper. Then she dallied through the evening, giving her attention to Allan until all the household, except her mother, had gone to bed.
"I will watch with Allan to-night," her mother said. "You need rest more than I do. Lie down in my room and try to get some sleep."
Her mother kissed her, and Beulah went to her room. But not to sleep. When silence filled all the house she slipped gently down the stairs, through the front yard, and into the corral. Fortunately her horse had been stabled. She harnessed him with some difficulty in the darkness, and threw herself into the saddle. For a hundred yards she walked him; then she drew him off the hard road on to the grass and loosed him into a trot. Half a mile from the house she was swinging at a hard gallop down the dark valley. The soft night wind pressed its caresses on her flushed cheek, but her heart beat fast with excitement and impatience, and she galloped the foaming horse to the limit of his speed. More than once even the sure-footed ranger almost fell over the treacherous badger-holes, but she had learned to ride like the saddle itself, and she merely tightened the rein and urged him faster.
Two hours of such violence were a safety-valve to her emotions, and both horse and rider were content to enter the little town at a walk. Here and there a coal-oil lamp shed its cube of yellow light through an unblinded window, but the streets were deserted and in utter darkness. She had now reached the point at which her general plan to see Travers must be worked out into detail, and she allowed the horse his time as she turned the matter over in her mind. She had no doubt that if she found Sergeant Grey he would permit an interview, but she shrank from making the request. She might do so as a last resort; but if possible she meant to seek out her lover—for so she thought of him—for herself. She knew that the jails in the smaller towns were crude affairs, where the prisoner was locked up and usually left without a guard. The first thing was to find the jail.
At a crossing her horse almost collided with a boy returning home from some late errand. "Oh, Mr. Boy," she said. "Come here, please, I want you to help me."
The boy approached hesitatingly, as though suspicious that some kind of trick were being played on him.
"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where the jail is? I'll give you a dollar if you do."
"There ain't no jail here, miss," he replied frankly, evidently satisfied that the question was bona fide. "There's a coop, but you wouldn't give a dime to see it. It's just a kind of a shed."
"That's just what I want to find," she continued, "and I'll give you a dollar to show me where it is."
"Easy pickin'," said the boy. "Steer your horse along this way."
He led her through the main part of the town, to where a one-storey building, somewhat apart, stood aloof in the darkness.
"Some coop, ain't it?" said her guide, with boyish irony. "My dad says that's what we git fer votin' against the Gover'ment. The fire truck's in the front end, an' there's a cell with bars behind. Do you want to see that, too?"
"Yes, that's what I want to see, but I can find it myself now, thank you."
"Say, miss, you better be kerful. They've got a murd'rer in there now—Oh, say"—with a sudden change in his voice—"maybe he's somethin' to you? They ain't proved nothin' against him yet."
"Yes, he's a good deal to me," she said.
"Brother?" he demanded, with disconcerting persistence.
"No."
If her eyes could have pierced the darkness she would have seen a broad smile of understanding spreading over his young face. But it was a sympathetic smile withal. "Then I guess this dollar stands for 'beat it'?" he remarked.
"You win," she said, falling into his slang. "Also, forget it."
"I gotch
uh, miss," he said, trotting off. Then he called back through the darkness, "An' I hope he gits off."
"God bless him for that," she said to herself, as she dismounted and made her way to the back of the building. She saw the outline of a door, which was undoubtedly locked, and further down the same wall was a little square window, with bars on it. There appeared to be only one cell, so there was no problem of locating the right one.
She stole up along the wall, but the window was too high for her. Searching about the littered yard she found a square tin, such as the ranchers use to carry coal-oil. Mounting this she was able to bring her face to the bars. The window was open for ventilation, and she strained her ear, but at first could hear nothing for the tumultous beating of her own heart. But at length she seemed to catch the sound of regular breathing from within.
"Jim," she said, in a low voice, listening intently. But there was no response.
"Jim," she repeated, a little louder. She fancied she heard a stir, and the sound of breathing seemed to cease.
"Jim Travers!"
"Yes!" came a quick reply. "Yes! Who is it?"
"Come to the window, Jim."
In a moment she saw the outline of his face through the darkness.
"Beulah Harris," he demanded, in his quiet voice, "what are you doing here?"
A great happiness surged about her at the sound of his voice and the warmth of his breath against her face. "I might ask the same, Jim, but such questions are embarrassing. Anyway, I am on the right side of the wall."
She saw his teeth gleam in the darkness. What a wonderful soul he was!
"But you shouldn't have come like this," he protested, and his voice was serious enough. "You are compromising yourself."
"Not I," she answered. "These bars are more inflexible than the stiffest chaperone. And I just had to see you, Jim, at once. We've got to get you out of here."
"How's Allan?"
The Homesteaders Page 21