Burt strode around the corner and threw the door back wide.
“Bruce! Bruce! You mustn’t feel so bad!” Excitement made his voice sound harsh, but there was no mistaking the sympathy intended or the yearning in his face.
Bruce jumped, startled, to his feet and stared, his vision dimmed by the smarting tears. Was it a ghost—was he, too, getting “queer?”
“Haven’t you anything to say to me, Bruce?”
There was an odd timidity in his father’s voice but it was real enough—it was no hallucination. Simultaneous with the relief the thought flashed through Bruce’s mind that his father had seen him through the window in his moment of weakness and despair. His features stiffened and with a quick, shamed movement he brushed his eyes with the back of his hand while his eyes flashed pride and resentment.
“I said all I had to say fifteen years ago when you refused me the chance to make something of myself. If I’d had an education nobody could have made a fool of me like this.” His voice vibrated with mingled bitterness and mortification.
“I suppose you’ve heard all about it and come to say—‘I told you so.’”
“I’ve come to see you through.”
“You’re too late; I’m down and out.” In Bruce’s voice Burt recognized his own harsh tones. “You’ve got nothing that I want now; you might as well go back.” His black eyes were relentless—hard.
“Won’t you shake hands with me, Bruce?” There was pleading in his voice as he took a step toward his son. Bruce did not stir, and Burt added with an effort: “It ain’t so easy as you might think for me to beg like this.”
“I begged, too, but it didn’t do any good.”
“I’ve come twenty miles—on foot—to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m not young any more, Bruce. I’m an old man—and you’re all I’ve got in the world.”
An old man! The words startled Bruce—shocked him. He never had thought of his father as old, or lonely, but always as tireless, self-centred, self-sufficient, absorbed heart and soul in getting rich. He seemed suddenly to see the bent shoulders, the graying hair and eyebrows, the furrows and deep, drooping lines about the mouth that had not been engraved by happiness. There was something forlorn, pathetic about him as he stood there with his hand out asking for forgiveness. And he had plodded through the snow—twenty miles—on foot to see him!
The blood that is thicker than water stirred, and the tugging at his heart strings grew too hard to withstand. He unfolded his arms and stretched out a hand impulsively—“Father!” Then both—“Dad!” he cried.
“My boy!” There was a catch in the old man’s voice, misty eyes looked into misty eyes and fifteen years of bitterness vanished as father and son clasped hands.
When Burt could speak he looked at Bruce quizzically and said, “I thought you’d be married by this time, Bruce.”
“Married! What right has a Failure to get married?”
“That’s no way to talk. What’s one slip-up, or two, or three? Nobody’s a failure till he’s dead. Confidence comes from success, but, let me tell you, boy, practical knowledge comes from jolts.”
“Dog-gone! I ought to be awful wise,” Bruce answered ironically. “Yes,” sobering. “I’ve learned something—I’m not liable to make the same mistake twice.” He added ruefully: “Nor, by the same token, am I likely to have the chance. I suppose I’ve got the reputation of being something midway between an idiot and a thief.”
Burt seemed to consider.
“Well, now, I can’t recall that the person who engineered this trip for me used any such names as that. As near as I could make out she was somewhat prejudiced on your side.”
Bruce stared.
“She? Not ‘Ma’ Snow!”
Burt’s eyes twinkled as he shook his head.
“No,” drily, “not ‘Ma’ Snow. She’s an estimable lady but I doubt if she could talk me into comin’ on a tour like this in winter.”
A wonderful light dawned suddenly in Bruce’s eyes.
“You mean—”
“—Helen. I’m feelin’ well enough acquainted with her now to call her Helen. Whatever else we disagree on, Bruce, it looks as though we had the same taste when it comes to girls.”
“You know her?” Bruce’s tone was as incredulous as his face.
Burt answered with a wry smile:
“After you’ve ridden on the back seat of that Beaver Creek stage with a person and bumped heads every fifteen feet for a hundred miles, you’re not apt to feel like strangers when you get in.”
Bruce almost shouted—
“She’s in Ore City!”
“She was.”
Bruce fell back into his old attitude at the table, but his father stepped quickly to the door and an instant later threw it open. At his side was Helen—with outstretched arms and face aglow, her eyes shining happily.
Bruce had not known that great and sudden joy could make a person dizzy, but the walls, the floor, everything, seemed to waver as he leaped to his feet.
“I was sure you wouldn’t turn your own partner out of doors!” Her lips parted in the smile that he loved and though he could not speak he went toward her with outstretched arms.
Passing the window, Uncle Bill stopped and stood for a second looking into the light.
“Hells catoots!” he muttered gruffly, “Seems like sometimes in this world things happen as they ort.” And then, Ore City to the contrary, he demonstrated that he had both presence of mind and tact, for he shouted to Burt in a voice that would have carried a mile on a still night—“Hi! Old Man! Come out and help me with this horse. Sounds like he’s down agin and chokin’ hisself.”
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The Man from the Bitter Roots Page 27