"You won't need that." The voice was reassuring. It was Vil Holland's voice; she had recognized him a second before he spoke and greeted him with a smile, even as she wondered what had brought him there. Only three times before had he come to her cabin, once to ascertain who was moving into the sheep camp, once when he had pitched Lord Clendenning into the creek, and again, only a few days before, when he had come to teach her to shoot. The girl noted that he seemed graver than usual, if that were possible. Certain it was that he appeared to be holding himself under restraint. She wondered if he had come to warn her of the proximity of Bethune.
"I was in town, to-day," he came directly to the point. "An' Len Christie told me you're goin' to teach school." He paused and his eyes rested upon her face as if seeking confirmation.
Patty laughed; she could afford to laugh, now that the necessity for teaching did not exist. "I asked him if he could find a school for me sometime ago," she replied, trying to fathom what was in his mind.
There was a moment of silence, during which Patty saw the man's fingers tighten upon his hat brim. "I don't want you to do that. It ain't fit work—for you—teachin' other folks' kids."
Patty stared at him in surprise. The words had come slowly, and at their conclusion he had paused.
"Maybe you could suggest some work that is more fit?"
The man ignored the hint of sarcasm. "Yes—I think I can." His head was slightly bowed, and Patty saw that it was with an effort he continued: "That is, I don't know if I can make you see it like I do. It's awful real to me—an' plain. Miss Sinclair, I can't make any fine speeches like they do in books. I wouldn't if I could—it ain't my way. I love you more than I could tell you if I knew all the words in the language, an' how to fit 'em together. I loved you that day I first saw you—back there on the divide at Lost Creek. You was afraid of me, an' you wouldn't show it, an' you wouldn't own up that you was lost—'til I'd made the play of goin' off an' leavin' you. An' I've loved you every minute since—an' every minute since, I've fought against lovin' you. But, it's no use. The more I fight it, the stronger it gets. It's stronger than I am. I can't down it. It's the first time I ever ran up against anything I couldn't whip." Again he paused. Patty advanced a step, and her eyes glowed softly as they rested upon the form that stood in her doorway silhouetted against the after-glow. She saw Buck rub his velvet nose affectionately up and down the man's sleeve, and into her heart leaped a great longing for this man who, with the unconscious dignity of the vast open places upon him, had told her so earnestly of his love. She opened her lips to speak but there was a great lump in her throat, and no words came.
"That's why," he continued, "I know it ain't just a flash in the pan—this love of mine ain't. All summer I've watched you, an' the hardest thing I ever had to do was to set back an' let you play a lone hand against the worst devil that ever showed his face in the hills. But the way things stacked up, I had to. You had me sized up for the one that was campin' on your trail, an' anything I'd have done would have played into Bethune's hand. I know I ain't fit for you—no man is. But, I'll always do the best I know how by you—an' I'll always love you. As for the rest of it, I never saved any money. I know there's gold here in the hills, an' I've spent years huntin' it. I'll find it, too—sometime. But, I ain't exactly a pauper, either. I've got my two hands, an' I've got a contract with Old Man Samuelson to winter his cattle. I didn't want to do it first, but the figure he named was about twice what I thought the job was worth. I told him so right out, an' he kind of laughed an' said maybe I'd need it all, an' anyhow, them cattle was all grade Herefords, an' was worth more to winter than common dogies. So, you see, we could winter through, all right, an' next summer, we could prospect together. The gold's here, somewhere—your dad knew it—an' I know it."
Receiving no answering pat, the buckskin left off his nuzzling of the man's sleeve, and turned from the doorway. As he did so the brown leather jug scraped lightly against the jamb. The girl's eyes flew to the jug, and swiftly back to the man who stood framed in the doorway. She loved him! For days and days she had known that she loved him, and for days and nights her thoughts had been mostly of him—this unsmiling knight of the saddle—her "guardian devil of the hills." Without exception, the people whose regard was worth having respected him, and liked him, even though they deplored his refusal to accept steady work. They're just like the people back home, she thought. They have no imagination. To their minds the cowpuncher who draws his forty dollars a month, year in and year out, is in some manner more dependable than the man whose imagination and love of the boundless open lead him to stake his time against millions. What do they know of the joys and the despairs of uncertainty? In a measure they, too, love the plains and the hills—but their love of the open is inextricably interwoven with their preconceived ideas of conduct. But, Vil Holland is bound by no such convention; his "outfit," a pack horse to carry it, and his home—all outdoors! Her father had imagination, and year after year, in the face of the taunts and jibes of his small town neighbors, he had steadfastly allowed his imagination full sway, and at last—he had won. She had adored her father from whom she had inherited her love of the wild. But—there was the jug! Always her thoughts of Vil Holland had led up to that brown leather jug until she had come to hate it with an unreasoning hatred.
"I see you have not forgotten your jug."
"No, I got it filled in town." The man's reply was casual, as he would have mentioned his gloves, or his hat.
"You said you had never run up against anything you couldn't whip, except—except——"
"Yes, except my love for you. That's right—an' I never expect to."
"How about that jug? Can you whip that?"
"Why, yes, I could. If there was any need. I never tried it."
"Suppose you try it for a while, and see."
The man regarded her seriously. "You mean, if I leave off packin' that jug, you'll——"
"I haven't promised anything." The girl laughed a trifle nervously. "But, I will tell you this much. I utterly despise a drunkard!"
Vil Holland nodded slowly. "Let's get the straight of it," he said. "I didn't know—I didn't realize it was really hurtin' me any. Can you see that it does? Have I ever done anything that you know of, or have heard tell of, that a sober man wouldn't do?"
The girl felt her anger rising. "Nobody can drink as much as you do, and not be the worse for it. Don't try to defend yourself."
"No, I wouldn't do that. You see, if it's hurtin' me, there wouldn't be any defense—an' if it ain't, I don't need any."
For an instant Patty regarded the man who stood framed in the doorway. "Clean-blooded," the doctor had called him, and clean-blooded he looked—the very picture of health and rugged strength, clear of eye and firm of jaw, not one slightest hint or mark of the toper could she detect, and the realization that this was so, angered her the more.
Abruptly, she changed the subject, and the moment the brown leather jug was banished from her mind, her anger subsided. In the doorway, Vil Holland noted the undercurrent of suppressed excitement in her voice as she said: "I have the most wonderful news! I—I found daddy's mine!" Seconds passed as the man stood waiting for her to proceed. "I found it to-day," she continued, without noting that his lean brown hand gripped the hat brim even more tightly than before, nor that his lips were pressed into a thin straight line. "And my stakes are all in, and in the morning I'm going to file."
Vil Holland interrupted. "You—you say you located Rod Sinclair's strike? You really located it?" Somehow, his voice sounded different.
The girl sensed the change without defining it. "Yes, I really found it!" she answered. "Do you want to know where?" Hastily she turned to the cupboard and taking a match from a box, lighted the lamp. "You see," she laughed, "I am not afraid to trust you. I'm going to show you daddy's map, and his photographs, and the samples. Oh, if you knew how I've hunted and hunted through these hills for that rock wall! You see, the map was like so much Greek to me, until I
happened by accident to learn how to read it. Before that, I just rode up and down the valleys hunting for the wall with the broad crooked crack in it. Here it is." The man had advanced to the table, and was bending over the two photographs, examining them minutely. "And here's his map." He picked up the paper and for several minutes studied the penciled directions. Then he laid it down, and turned his attention to the samples.
"High grade," he appraised, and returned them to the table beside the photographs. "So, you don't have to teach school," he said, speaking more to himself than to her. "An' you'll be goin' out of the hill country for good an' all. There's nothin' here for you, now that you've got what you come after. You'll be goin' back—East."
Patty laughed, and as Vil Holland looked into her face he saw that her eyes held dancing lights. "I'm not going back East," she said. "I've learned to love—the hill country. I have learned that—perhaps—there is more here for me than—than even daddy's mine."
Vil Holland shook his head. "There's nothin' for you in the hills," he repeated, slowly, and abruptly extended his hand. "I'm glad for your sake your luck changed, Miss Sinclair. I hope the gold you take out of there will bring you happiness. You've earnt it—every cent of it, an' you've got it, an' now, as far as the hill country goes—the books are closed. Good-night, I must be goin', now."
Abruptly as he had offered his hand, he withdrew it, and turning, stepped through the door, mounted his horse, and rode out into the night.
* * *
CHAPTER XIX
THE RACE FOR THE REGISTER
Beside the little table Patty Sinclair listened to the sound of hoofs splashing through the shallows of the creek and thudding dully upon the floor of the valley beyond. When the sounds told her that the horseman had disappeared into the timber, she walked slowly to the door, and leaning her arm against the jamb, stared for a long time into the black sweep of woods that concealed the trail that led upward to the notch in the hills, just discernible against the sky where the stars showed through the last faint blush of after-glow in winking points of gold.
"Nothing here for me," she repeated dully. "Nothing but trees, and hills—and gold. He loves me," she laughed bitterly. "And yet, between me, and his jug, he chose—the jug." She closed the door, slipped the bar into place, thrust the photographs and map into her pocket, and threw herself face downward upon the bunk. And, in the edge of the timber, Vil Holland turned his horse slowly about and headed him up the ravine. At the notch in the hills he slipped to the ground and, throwing an arm across the saddle, removed his Stetson and let the night wind ripple his hair. Standing alone in the night with his soul-hurt, he gazed far downward where a tiny square of yellow light marked the window of the cabin.
"It's hell—the way things work out," he said, thoughtfully. "Yes, sir, Buck, it sure is hell. If Len had told me a week ago about her havin' to teach school, or even yesterday—she might have—But, now—she's rich. An' that cracked rock claim turnin' out to be hers—" He swung abruptly into the saddle and headed the buckskin for camp.
Patty spent a miserable night. Brief periods of sleep were interspersed with long periods of wakefulness in which her brain traveled wearily over and over a long, long trail that ended always at a brown leather jug that swung by a strap from a saddle horn. She had found her father's claim—had accomplished the thing she had started out to accomplish—had vindicated her father's judgment in the eyes of the people back home—had circumvented the machinations of Bethune, and in all probability, the moment that she recorded her claim would be the possessor of more gold than she could possibly spend—and in the achievement there was no joy. There was a dull hurt in her heart, and the future stretched away, uninviting, heart-sickening, interminable. The world looked drab.
She ate her breakfast by lamplight, and as objects began to take form in the pearly light of the new day, she saddled her horse and rode up the trail to the notch in the hills—the trail that was a short cut, and that would carry her past Vil Holland's little white tent, nestling close beside its big rock at the edge of the little plateau. "He will still be asleep, and I can take one more look at the far snow mountains from the spot that might have been the porch of—our cabin."
Carefully keeping to the damp ground that bordered the little creek, she worked her way around the huge rock, and drew up in amazement. The little white tent was gone! Hastily, her eyes swept the plateau. The buckskin was gone, and the saddle was not hanging by its stirrup from its accustomed limb-stub. Crossing the creek, the girl stared at the row of packs, the blanket roll, and the neat tarpaulin-covered bundles that were ranged along the base of the rock.
"He has gone," she murmured, as if trying to grasp the fact and then, again: "He has gone." Slowly, her eyes raised to the high-flung peaks that reared their snowy heads against the blue. And as she looked, the words of Vil Holland formed themselves in her brain. "If there ain't any 'we,' there won't be any cabin—so there's nothing to worry about." "Nothing to worry about," she repeated bitterly, and touching her horse with a spur, rode out across the plateau toward the head of a coulee that led to the trail for town. "Where has he gone?" she wondered, and pulled up sharply as her horse entered the coulee. Riding slowly down the trail ahead, mounted on the meditative Gee Dot, was Microby Dandeline. Urging her horse forward Patty gained her side, and realizing that escape was hopeless, the girl stared sullenly without speaking.
"Why, Microby!" she smiled, ignoring the sullen stare, "you're miles from home, and it's hardly daylight! Where in the world are you going?"
"Hain't a-goin' nowher'. I'm prospectin'."
"Where's Vil Holland, have you seen him?"
The girl nodded: "He's done gone to town. He's mad, an' he roden fas' as Buck kin run, an' he says, 'I'm gonna file one more claim, an' to hell with the hill country, tell yo' dad good-by!'"
Patty sat for an instant as one stunned. "Gone to town! Mad! File one more claim!" What did it mean? Why was Vil Holland riding to town as fast as his horse could run? And what claim was he going to file? He had mentioned no claim—and if he had just made a strike, surely he would have mentioned it—last night. She knew that he already had a claim, and that he considered it worthless. He told her once that he hadn't even bothered to work out the assessments—it was no good. Was it possible that he was riding to file her claim? Was he no better than Bethune—only shrewder, more patient, richer in imagination?
With a swish the quirt descended upon her horse's flanks. The animal shot forward and, leaving Microby Dandeline staring open-mouthed, horse and rider dashed headlong down the coulee. Into the long white trail they swept, through the canyon, and out among the foothills toward Thompsons'. "Why did I show him the map, and the pictures? Why did I trust him? Why did I trust anybody? I see it all, now! His continual spying, and his plausible explanation that he was watching Bethune. He asked me to marry him, and when, like the poor little fool I was, I showed him the location, he was only too glad to get the mine without being saddled with me."
If Vil Holland reached town first—well, she could teach school. Scalding tears blinded her as with quirt and spur she crowded her horse to his utmost. Only one slender hope remained. With Thompson's fresh horse, Lightning, she might yet win the race. The chance was slim, but she would take it! Her own horse was laboring heavily, a solid lather of sweat, as his feet pounded the trail that wound white and hot through the foothills. "It's your last hard ride," she sobbed into his ear as she urged him on. "Win or lose, boy, it's your last hard ride—and we've got to make it!"
She whirled into Thompson's lane and, in the dooryard, threw herself from her horse almost into the arms of the big ranchman who stared at her in surprise. "Must be somethin's busted loose in the hills, that folks is all takin' to the open!" he exclaimed.
"Where's Lightning?" cried the girl. "Quick! I want him!"
"Lightnin'?" repeated Thompson. "Why, Lightnin's gone—Vil Holland come along an hour or so ago, an' rode him on to town. Turned Buck into the corral, yonder�
��he was rode down almost as bad as yourn."
Patty's brain reeled dizzily as from a blow. Lightning gone! Her one slim chance of saving her mine had vanished in a breath. She felt suddenly weak, and sick, and leaning against her saddle for support, she closed her eyes and buried her face in her arm.
"What's the matter, Miss? Somethin' wrong?"
The girl laughed, a dry hard laugh, and raising her head, looked into the man's face. "Oh, no!" she said. "Nothing's wrong—nothing except that I've lost my father's claim—lost it because I relied on your horse to carry me into town in time to file ahead of him."
"Lost yer pa's claim?" cried Thompson. "What do you mean—lost? Has that devil dared to show his face after the horse raid?" He paused suddenly and smiled. "Now don't you go worryin' about that there claim. Vil Holland's on the job! I know'd there was somethin' in the wind when he come a-larrupin' in here an' jerked his kak offen Buck an' throw'd it on Lightnin' without hardly a word. Vil, he'll head him! An' when he does, Bethune'll be lucky if he lives long enough to git hung!"
"Bethune! Bethune!" cried the girl bitterly. "Bethune's got nothing to do with it! It's Vil Holland himself that's going to file my claim. Have you got another horse here?" she cried. "If you have I want him. I'm not beaten yet! There's still a chance! Maybe Lightning will go down, or something. Quick—change my saddle!"
Catching up a rope, Thompson ran to the corral and throwing his loop over the head of a horse led him out and transferred the girl's saddle and bridle.
"I don't git the straight of it," he said, eying her with a puzzled frown. "But if it's a question of gittin' to town before Vil Holland kin beat you out of yer claim—you've got plenty of time—if you walk."
Patty shot the man one glance of withering scorn. "You're all crazy! He's got you hypnotized! Everybody thinks he's a saint——"
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