The Rustler of Wind River

by Ogden, George W

  “I can’t see what good that would have done,” said Frances, wearily; “there are others who don’t believe him. They’d have got him some time, just like they got him—in a coward’s underhanded way, never giving him a chance for his life.”

  “We went to Meander this morning thinking we’d catch father there before he left. We wanted to tell him about Mr. Macdonald, and get him to drop this feud. If we could have seen him I know he’d have done what we asked, for he’s got the noblest heart in the world!”

  Whatever Frances felt on the noble nature of Saul Chadron she held unexpressed. She did not feel that it fell to her duty to tell Nola whose hand had struck Macdonald down, although she believed that the cattleman’s daughter deserved whatever pain and humiliation the revelation might bring. For it was as plain as if Nola had confessed it in words that she had much more than a friendly feeling of gratitude for the foeman of her family.

  Her heart was as unstable as mercury, it seemed. Frances despised her for her fickleness, scorned her for the mean face of friendship over the treachery of her soul. Not that she regretted Major King. Nola was free to take him and make the most of him. But she was not to come in as a wedge to rive her from this man.

  Let her pay her debt of gratitude in something else than love. Living or dead, Alan Macdonald was not for Nola Chadron. Her penance and her tears, her meanings and sobs and her broken heart, even that, if it should come, could not pay for the humiliation and the pain which that house had brought upon him.

  “When did it happen?” asked Nola, the gust of her weeping past.

  “This morning, early.”

  “Who did it—how did it happen? You got away from Chance—you said it wasn’t Chance.”

  “We got away from that gang yesterday; this happened this morning, miles from that place.”

  “Who was it? Why don’t you tell me, Frances?”

  They were standing at Macdonald’s side. A little spurt of flame among the ends of wood in the chimney threw a sudden illumination over them, and played like water over a stone upon Macdonald’s face, then sank again, as if it had been plunged in ashes. Frances remained silent, her vindictiveness, her hardness of heart, against this vacillating girl dying away as the flame had died. It was not her desire to hurt her with that story of treachery and cowardice which must leave its stain upon her name for many a year.

  “The name of the man who shot him is a curse and a blight on this land, a mockery of every holy human thought. I’ll not speak it.”

  Nola stared at her, horror speaking from her eyes. “He must be a monster!”

  “He is the lowest of the accursed—a coward!” Frances said.

  Nola shuddered, standing silently by the couch a little while. Then: “But I want to help you, Frances, if you’ll let me.”

  “There’s nothing that you can do. I’m waiting for Mrs. Mathews and the doctor from the agency.”

  “You can go up and rest until they come, Frances, you look so tired and pale. I’ll watch by him—you can tell me what to do, and I’ll call you when they come.”

  “No; I’ll stay until—I’ll stay here.”

  “Oh, please go, Frances; you’re nearly dead on your feet.”

  “Why do you want me to leave him?” Frances asked, in a flash of jealous suspicion. She turned to Nola, as if to search out her hidden intention.

  “You were asleep in your chair when I came in, Frances,” Nola chided her, gently.

  Again they stood in silence, looking down upon the wounded man. Frances was resentful of Nola’s interest in him, of her presence in the room. She was on the point of asking her to leave when Nola spoke.

  “If he hadn’t been so proud, if he’d only stooped to explain things to us, to talk to us, even, this could have been avoided, Frances.”

  “What could he have said?” Frances asked, wondering, indeed, what explanation could have lessened his offense in Saul Chadron’s eyes.

  “If I had known him, I would have understood,” Nola replied, vaguely, in soft low voice, as if communing with herself.

  “You! Well, perhaps—perhaps even you would have understood.”

  “Look—he moved!”

  “Sh-h-h! your talking disturbs him, Nola. Go to bed—you can’t help me any here.”

  “And leave him all to you!”

  The words flashed from Nola, as if they had sprung out of her mouth before her reason had given them permission to depart.

  “Of course with me; he’s mine!”

  “If he’s going to die, Frances, can’t I share him with you till the end—can’t I have just a little share in the care of him here with you?”

  Nola laid her hand on Frances’ arm as she pleaded, turning her white face appealingly in the dim light.

  “Don’t talk that way, girl!” said Frances, roughly; “you have no part in him at all—he is nothing to you.”

  “He is all to me—everything to me! Oh, Frances! If you knew, if you knew!”

  “What? If I knew what?” Frances caught her arm in fierce grip, and shook her savagely.

  “Don’t—don’t—hurt me, Frances!” Nola cringed and shrank away, and lifted her arms as if to ward a blow.

  “What did you mean by that? Tell me—tell me!”

  “Oh, the way it came to me, the way it came to me as he carried me in his arms and sang to me so I wouldn’t be afraid!” moaned Nola, her face hidden in her hands. “I never knew before what it was to care for anybody that way—I never, never knew before!”

  “You can’t have this man, nor any share in him, living or dead! I gave up Major King to you; be satisfied.”

  “Oh, Major King!”

  “Poor shadow that he is in comparison with a man, he’ll have to serve for you. Living or dead, I tell you, this man is mine. Now go!”

  Nola was shaking again with sudden gust of weeping. She had sunk to the floor at the head of the couch, a white heap, her bare arms clasping her head.

  “It breaks my heart to see him die!” she moaned, rocking herself in her grief like a child.

  And child Frances felt her to be in her selfishness, a child never denied, and careless and unfeeling of the rights of others from this long indulgence. She doubted Nola’s sincerity, even in the face of such demonstrative evidence. There was no pity for her, and no softness.

  “Get up!” Frances spoke sternly—“and go to your room.”

  “He must not be allowed to die—he must be saved!” Nola reached out her hands, standing now on her knees, as if to call back his struggling soul.

  “Belated tears will not save him. Get up—it’s time for you to go.”

  Nola bent forward suddenly, her hair sweeping the wounded man’s face, her lips near his brow. Frances caught her with a sound in her throat like a growl, and flung her back.

  “You’ll not kiss him—you’ll never kiss him!” she said.

  Nola sprang up, not crying now, but hot with sudden anger.

  “If you were out of the way he’d love me!”

  “Love you! you little cat!”

  “Yes, he’d love me—I’d take him away from you like I’ve taken other men! He’d love me, I tell you—he’d love me!”

  Frances looked at her steadily a moment, contempt in her eloquent face. “If you have no other virtue in you, at least have some respect for the dying,” she said.

  “He’s not dying, he’ll not die!” Nola hotly denied. “He’ll live—live to love me!”

  “Go! This room—”

  “It’s my house; I’ll go and come in it when I please.”

  “I’m a prisoner in it, not a guest. I’ll force you out of the room if I must. This disgraceful behavior must end, and end this minute. Are you going?”

  “If you were out of the way, he’d love me,” said Nola from the door, spiteful, resentful, speaking slowly, as if pressing each word into Frances’ brain and heart; “if you were out of the way.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE MAN IN THE
DOOR

  When the doctor from the agency arrived at dawn, hours after Mrs. Mathews, he found everything done for the wounded man that skill and experience could suggest. Mrs. Mathews had carried instruments, antiseptics, bandages, with her, and she had no need to wait for anybody’s directions in their use. So the doctor, who had been reinforced by the same capable hands many a time before, took a cup of hot coffee and rode home.

  Mrs. Mathews moved about as quietly as a nun, and with that humility and sense of self-effacement that comes of penances and pains, borne mainly for others who have fallen with bleeding feet beside the way.

  She was not an old woman, only as work and self-sacrifice had aged her. Her abundant black hair—done up in two great braids which hung in front of her shoulders, Indian-wise, and wrapped at their ends with colored strings—was salted over with gray, but her beautiful small hands were as light and swift as any girl’s. Good deeds had blessed them with eternal youth, it seemed.

  She wore a gray dress, sprinkled over with twinkling little Indian gauds and bits of finery such as the squaws love. This barbaric adornment seemed unaccountable in the general sobriety of her dress, for not a jewel, save her wedding-ring alone, adorned her. Frances did not marvel that she felt so safe in this gentle being’s presence, safe for herself, safe for the man who was more to her than her own soul.

  When the doctor had come and gone, Mrs. Mathews pressed Frances to retire and sleep. She spoke with soft clearness, none of that hesitation in her manner that Frances had marked on the day that they rode up and surrounded her where the Indians were waiting their rations of beef.

  “You know how it happened—who did it?” Frances asked. She was willing to leave him with her, indeed, but reluctant to go until she had given expression to a fear that hung over her like a threat.

  “Banjo told me,” Mrs. Mathews said, nodding her graceful little head.

  “I’m afraid that when Chadron comes home and finds him here, he’ll throw him out to die,” Frances whispered. “I’ve been keeping Mr. Macdonald’s pistols ready to—to—make a fight of it, if necessary. Maybe you could manage it some other way.”

  Frances was on her knees beside her new friend, her anxiety speaking from her tired eyes, full of their shadows of pain. Mrs. Mathews drew her close, and smoothed back Frances’ wilful, redundant hair with soothing touch. For a little while she said nothing, but there was much in her delicate silence that told she understood.

  “No, Chadron will not do that,” she said at last. “He is a violent, blustering man, but I believe he owes me something that will make him do in this case as I request. Go to sleep, child. When he wakes he’ll be conscious, but too weak for anything more than a smile.”

  Frances went away assured, and stole softly up the stairs. The sun was just under the hill; Mrs. Chadron would be stirring soon. Nola was up already, Frances heard with surprise as she passed her door, moving about her room with quick step. She hesitated there a moment, thinking to turn back and ask Mrs. Mathews to deny her the hospital room. But such a request would seem strange, and it would be difficult to explain. She passed on into the room that she had lately occupied. Soothed by her great confidence in Mrs. Mathews, she fell asleep, her last waking hope being that when she stood before Alan Macdonald’s couch again it would be to see him smile.

  Frances woke toward the decline of day, with upbraidings for having yielded to nature’s ministrations for so long. Still, everything must be progressing well with Alan Macdonald, or Mrs. Mathews would have called her. She regretted that she hadn’t something to put on besides her torn and soiled riding habit to cheer him with the sight of when he should open his eyes to smile.

  Anxious as she was, and fast as her heart fluttered, she took time to arrange her hair in the way that she liked it best. It seemed warrant to her that he must find her handsomer for that. People argue that way, men in their gravity as well as women in their frivolity, each believing that his own appraisement of himself is the incontestable test, none rightly understanding how ridiculous pet foibles frequently make us all.

  But there was nothing ridiculous in the coil of serene brown hair drawn low against a white neck, nor in the ripples of it at the temples, nor in the stately seriousness of the face that it shadowed and adorned. Frances Landcraft was right, among thousands who were wrong in her generation, in her opinion of what made her fairer in the eyes of men.

  Her hand was on the door when a soft little step, like a wind in grass, came quickly along the hall, and a light hand struck a signal on the panel. Frances knew that it was Mrs. Mathews before she flung the door open and disclosed her. She was dressed to take the road again, and Frances drew back when she saw that, her blood falling away from her heart. She believed that he stood in need of her gentle ministrations no longer, and that she had come to tell her that he was dead.

  Mrs. Mathews read her thought in her face, and shook her head with an assuring smile. She entered the room, still silent, and closed the door.

  “No, he is far from dead,” she said.

  “Then why—why are you leaving?”

  “The little lady of the ranch has stepped into my place—but you need not be afraid for yours.” Mrs. Mathews smiled again as she said that. “He asked for you with his first word, and he knows just how matters stand.”

  The color swept back over Frances’ face, and ran down to hide in her bosom, like a secret which the world was not to see. Her heart leaped to hear that Maggie had been wrong in her application of the rule that applies to men in general when death is blowing its breath in their faces.

  “But that little Nola isn’t competent to take care of him—she’ll kill him if she’s left there with him alone!”

  “With kindness, then,” said Mrs. Mathews, not smiling now, but shaking her head in deprecation. “A surgeon is here, sent back by Major King, he told me, and he has taken charge of Mr. Macdonald, along with Miss Chadron and her mother. I have been dismissed, and you have been barred from the room where he lies. There’s a soldier guarding the door to keep you away from his side.”

  “That’s Nola’s work,” Frances nodded, her indignation hot in her cheek, “she thinks she can batter her way into his heart if she can make him believe that I am neglecting him, that I have gone away.”

  “Rest easy, my dear, sweet child,” counseled Mrs. Mathews, her hand on Frances’ shoulder. “Mr. Macdonald will get well, and there is only one door to his heart, and somebody that I know is standing in that.”

  “But he—he doesn’t understand; he’ll think I’ve deserted him!” Frances spoke with trembling lips, tears darkling in her eyes.

  “He knows how things stand; I had time to tell him that before they ousted me. I’d have taken time to tell him, even if I’d had to—pinch somebody’s ear.”

  The soft-voiced little creature laughed when she said that. Frances felt her breath go deeper into her lungs with the relief of this assurance, and the threatening tears came falling over her fresh young cheeks. But they were tears of thankfulness, not of suspense or pain.

  Frances did not trouble the soldier at the door to exercise his unwelcome and distasteful authority over her. But she saw that he was there, indeed, as she went out to give Mrs. Mathews farewell at the door.

  Nola came pattering to her as she turned back in the house again to find Maggie, for her young appetite was clamoring. Nola’s eyes were round, her face set in an expression of shocked protest.

  “Isn’t this an outrage, this high-handed business of Major King’s?” She ran up all flushed and out of breath, as if she had been wrestling with her indignation and it had almost obtained the upper hand.

  “What fresh tyranny is he guilty of?” Frances inquired, putting last night’s hot words and hotter feelings behind her.

  “Ordering a soldier to guard the door of Mr. Macdonald’s room, with iron-clad instructions to keep you away from him! He sent his orders back by Doctor Shirley—isn’t it a petty piece of business?”

  “Mrs. M
athews told me. At least you could have allowed her to stay.”

  “I?” Nola’s eyes seemed to grow. She gazed and stared, injury, disbelief, pain, in her mobile expression. “Why, Frances, I didn’t have a thing to do with it, not a thing! Mother and I protested against this military invasion of our house, but protests were useless. The country is under martial law, Doctor Shirley says.”

  “How did Major King know that Mr. Macdonald had been brought here? He rode away without giving any instructions for his disposal or care. I believe he wanted him to die there where he fell.”

  “I don’t know how he came to hear it, unless the lieutenant here sent a report to him. But I ask you to believe me, Frances”—Nola put her hand on Frances’ arm in her old wheedling, stroking way—“when I tell you I hadn’t anything to do with it. In spite of what I said last night, I hadn’t. I was wild and foolish last night, dear; I’m sorry for all of that.”

  “Never mind,” Frances said.

  “Don’t you worry, we’ll take care of him, mother and I. Major King’s orders are that you’re not to leave this house, but I tell you, Frances, if I wanted to go home I’d go!”

  “So would I,” returned Frances, with more meaning in her manner of speaking than in her words. “Does Major King’s interdiction extend to the commissary? Am I going to be allowed to eat?”

  “Maggie’s got it all ready; I ran up to call you.” Nola slipped her arm round Frances’ waist and led her toward the kitchen, where Maggie had the table spread. “You’ll not mind the kitchen? The house is so upset by those soldiers in it that we have no privacy left.”

  “Prisoners and pensioners should eat in the kitchen,” Frances returned, trying to make a better appearance of friendliness for Nola than she carried in her heart.

  Maggie was full of apologies for the poor service and humble surroundings. “It is the doings of miss,” she whispered, in her native sibilant Mexican, when Nola found an excuse to leave Frances alone at her meal.