Something of the instinct of motherhood stirred in her veins at the thought. These were hers to care for—hers to attend and “do” for. She laughed as she thought of the family awaiting her. What a family. Yes, why not? These creatures were for the guardianship of the human race. With all their physical might they were helpless dependents on human aid. Yes, they must be thought for and cared for. They were her family. And she laughed again.
The barn was a sturdy building. Nor was it unpicturesque with its solid, dovetailed lateral logs and heavy thatched roof. She saw that it was built with the same care and finish as the house that was now her home. She could not help wondering at the manner of man who had designed and built it. She saw in it such deliberateness, such skill. There was nothing here of the slap-dash prairie carpenter she had read of—the man who flung up buildings simply for the needs of the moment. These were buildings that might last for ages and still retain all their original weather-proof comfort for the creatures they sheltered. She felt pleased with this man Moreton Kenyon.
She passed round the angle of the building to the doorway, and paused for a moment to admire the scheme of the farm. Every building fronted on a largish open space, which was split by the waters of Yellow Creek, beyond which lay the corrals. Here was forethought. The operative part of the farm was hidden from the house, and every detail of it was adjacent one to another. There was the wagon shed with a wagon in it, and harvesting implements stabled in perfect order. There were the hog-pens, the chicken-houses; the sheds for milch cows. There was the barn and the miniature grain store; then, across the creek, a well, with accompanying drinking-trough, corrals with lowing kine in them; a branding cage. And beyond these she could see a vista of fenced pastures.
As she stood reveling in the survey of her little possession the thought recurred to her that this was hers, all hers. It was the home of her family, and she laughed still more happily as she passed into the barn.
Pushing the door open she found herself greeted in the half-light by a chorus of equine whinnying such as she had never before experienced, and the sound thrilled her. There stood the team of great Clydesdale horses, their long, fiddle heads turned round staring at her with softly inquiring eyes. She wanted to cry out in her joy, but, restraining herself, walked up beside the nearest of them and patted its glossy sides. Her touch was a caress which more than gave expression to her delight.
Those were precious moments to Joan. They were so precious, indeed, that she quite forgot the purpose which had brought her there. She forgot that it was hers to tend and feed these great, helpless creatures. It was enough for her to sit on the swinging bail between the stalls, and revel in the gentle nuzzling of two velvety noses. In those first moments her sensations were unforgettable. The joy of it all held her in its thrall, and, for the moment at least, there was nothing else in the world.
The moments passed unheeded. Every sound was lost to her. And so it came about that she did not hear the galloping of a horse approaching. She did not hear it come to a halt near by. She did not even notice the figure that presently filled the doorway. And only did her first realization of the intrusion come with the pleasant sound of a man’s deep voice.
“Bob an’ Kitty’s kind o’ friendly, Miss Joan,” it said.
The girl turned with a jump and found herself confronted by Buck’s smiling face. And oddly enough her first flash of thought was that this man had used her own name, and not her nickname, and she was grateful to him.
Then she saw that he had the fork in his hand with which she had first seen him, and she remembered his overnight promise to do those very things for her which she had set out to do, but, alas! had forgotten all about.
His presence became a reproach at once, and a slight pucker of displeasure drew her even brows together.
“You’re very kind,” she began, “but——”
Buck’s smile broadened.
“‘But’s’ a ter’ble word,” he said. “It most always goes ahead of something unpleasant.” He quietly laid the fork aside, and, gathering an armful of hay, proceeded to fill Kitty’s manger. “Now what you wer’ going to say was something like that old—I mean your housekeeper—said, only you wouldn’t say it so mean. You jest want to say I’m not to git around doing the chores here for the reason you can’t accept favors, an’ you don’t guess it would be right to offer me pay, same as a ‘hired’ man.”
He hayed Bob’s manger, and then loosened both horses’ collar chains.
“If you’ll sit on the oat-box I’ll turn ’em round an’ take ’em to water at the trough. That’s it.”
Joan obeyed him without a word, and the horses were led out. And while they were gone the girl was left to an unpleasant contemplation of the situation. She determined to deal with the matter boldly, however, and began the moment he returned.
“You’re quite right, Mr. Buck,” she began.
“Buck—jest plain Buck,” he interrupted her. “But I hadn’t jest finished,” he went on deliberately. “I want to show you how you can’t do those things the old—your housekeeper was yearnin’ to do. Y’ see, you can’t get a ‘hired’ man nearer than Leeson Butte. You can’t get him in less’n two weeks. You can’t do the chores yourself, an’ that old—your housekeeper ain’t fit to do anything but make hash. Then you can’t let the stock go hungry. Besides all of which you’re doing me a real kindness letting me help you out. Ther’s no favor to you. It’s sure to me, an’ these creatures which can’t do things for themselves. So it would be a sound proposition to cut that ‘but’ right out of our talk an’ send word to your lawyer feller in Leeson Butte for a ‘hired’ man. An’ when he gits around, why—well, you won’t be needin’ me.”
All the time he was speaking his fork was busy clearing the stalls of their litter, and, at the finish, he leant on the haft of it and quizzically smiled into the girl’s beautiful, half-troubled face.
Joan contemplated protesting, but somehow his manner was so friendly, so frank and honest, that she felt it would be ungracious of her. Finally he won the day, and she broke into a little laugh of yielding.
“You talk too—too well for me,” she cried. “I oughtn’t to accept,” she added. “I know I oughtn’t, but what am I to do? I can’t do—these things.” Then she added regretfully: “And I thought it would be all so simple.”
Buck saw her disappointment, and it troubled him. He felt in a measure responsible, so he hastened to make amends.
“Wal, y’ see, men are rough an’ strong. They can do the things needed around a farm. I don’t guess women wer’ made for—for the rough work of life. It ain’t a thing to feel mean about. It’s jest in the nature of things.”
Joan nodded. All the time he was speaking she had been studying him, watching the play of expression upon his mobile features rather than paying due attention to his words.
She decided that she liked the look of him. It was not that he was particularly handsome. He seemed so strong, and yet so—so unconcerned. She wondered if that were only his manner. She knew that often volcanic natures, reckless, were hidden under a perfect calm. She wondered if it were so in his case. His eyes were so full of a brilliant dark light. Yes, surely this man roused might be an interesting personality. She remembered him last night. She remembered the strange, superheated fire in those same eyes when he had hurled the gold at her feet. Yes, she felt sure a tremendous force lay behind his calmness of manner.
The man’s thoughts were far less analytical. His was not the nature to search the psychology of a beautiful girl. To him Joan was the most wonderful thing on earth. She was something to be reverenced, to be worshipped. His imagination, fired by all his youthful impulse, endowed her with every gift that the mind of simple manhood could conceive, every virtue, every beauty of mind as well as body.
Joan watched him for some moments as he continued his work. It was wonderful how easy he made it seem, how quickly it was done. She even found herself regretting that in a few minutes the morning “chor
es” would be finished, and this man would be away to—where?
“You must have been up very early to get over here,” she said designedly. Her girlish curiosity and interest could no longer be denied. She must find out what he was and what he did for a living.
“I’m mostly up early,” he replied simply.
“Yes, of course. But—you have your own—stock to see to?”
She felt quite pleased with her cunning. But her pleasure was short-lived.
“Sure,” he returned, with disarming frankness.
“It really doesn’t seem fair that you should have the double work,” she went on, with another attempt to penetrate his reserve.
Buck’s smile was utterly baffling. He walked to the door of the barn and gave a prolonged, low whistle. Then he came back.
“It sure wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t,” he said simply.
“But you must have heaps to do on your—farm,” Joan went on, feeling that she was on the right track at last “Look at what you’re doing for me. These horses, the cattle, the—the pigs and things. I’ve no doubt you have much more to see to of your own.”
At that moment the head of Cæsar appeared in the doorway. He stared round the familiar stable evidently searching for his master. Finally catching sight of him, he clattered in to the place and rubbed his handsome head against Buck’s shoulder.
“This is my stock,” Buck said, affectionately rubbing the creature’s nose. “An’ I generally manage to see to him while the kettle’s boilin’ for breakfast.”
Just for a moment Joan felt abashed at her deliberate attempt to pump her companion. Then the quick, inquiring survey of the beautiful horse was too much for her, and she left her seat to join in the caresses.
“Isn’t he a beauty?” she cried, smoothing his silken face from the star on his forehead to the tip of his wide muzzle.
Just for a second her hand came into contact with the man’s, and, all unconscious, she let it remain. Then suddenly realizing the position she drew it away rather sharply.
Buck made no move, but had she only looked up she must have noted the sudden pallor of his face. That brief touch, so unconscious, so unmeaning, had again set his pulses hammering through his body. And it had needed all his control to repress the fiery impulse that stirred him. He longed to kiss that soft white hand. He longed to take it in his own strong palms and hold it for his own, to keep it forever. But the moment passed, and when he spoke it was in the same pleasant, easy fashion.
“I kind o’ thought I ought to let him go with the farm,” he said, “only the Padre wouldn’t think of it. He’d have made a dandy feller for you to ride.”
But Joan was up in arms in a moment.
“I’d never have forgiven you if you’d parted with him,” she cried. “He’s—he’s perfectly beautiful.”
Buck nodded.
“He’s a good feller.” And his tone said far more than his words.
He led the beast to the door, and, giving him an affectionate slap, sent him trotting off.
“I must git busy,” he said, with a laugh. “The hay needs cuttin’. Guess I’ll cut till dinner. After that I’ve got to quit till sundown. I’ll go right on cuttin’ each mornin’ till your ‘hired’ man comes along. Y’ see if it ain’t cut now we’ll be too late. I’ll just throw the harness on Kitty an’ Bob an’ leave ’em to git through with their feed while I see the hogs fed. Guess that old—your housekeeper can milk? I ran the cows into the corral as I came up. Seems to me she could do most things she got fixed on doing.”
Joan laughed.
“She was ‘fixed’ on sending you about what she called ‘your business,’” she said slyly.
Buck raised his brows in mock chagrin.
“Guess she succeeded, too. I sure got busy right away—until you come along, and—and got me quittin’.”
“Oh!” Joan stared at him with round eyes of reproach. Then she burst out laughing. “Well, now you shall hear the truth for that, and you’ll have to answer me too, Mr. Buck.”
“Buck—jest plain Buck.”
The girl made an impatient little movement.
“Well, then, ‘Buck.’ I simply came along to thank you, and to tell you that I couldn’t allow your help—except as a ‘hired’ man. And—I’m afraid you’ll think me very curious—I came to find out who you were, and how you came to find me and bring me home here. And—and I wanted to know—well, everything about my arrival. And you—you’ve made it all very difficult. You—insist on doing all this for me. You’re—you’re not so kind as I thought.”
Joan’s complaint was made half-laughingly and half-seriously. Buck saw the reality underlying her words, but determined to ignore it and only answer her lighter manner.
“If you’d only asked me these things I’d have told you right away,” he protested, smiling. “Y’ see you never asked me.”
“I—I was trying to,” Joan said feebly.
Buck paused in the act of securing Kitty’s harness.
“That old—your housekeeper wouldn’t ha’ spent a deal of time trying,” he said dryly.
Joan ignored the allusion.
“I don’t believe you intend to tell me now,” she said.
Buck left the stall and stood before the corn-box. His eyes were still smiling though his manner was tremendously serious.
“You’re wantin’ to know who I am,” he said. Then he paused, glancing out of the doorway, and the girl watched the return of that thoughtful expression which she had come to associate with his usual manner. “Wal,” he said at last, in his final way, “I’m Buck, and I was picked up on the trail-side, starving, twenty years ago by the Padre. He’s raised me, an’ we’re big friends. An’ now, since we sold his farm, we’re living at the old fur fort, back ther’ in the hills, and we’re goin’ to get a living pelt hunting. I’ve got no folks, an’ no name except Buck. I was called Buck. All I can remember is that my folks were farmers, but got burnt out in a prairie fire, and—burnt to death. That’s why I was on the trail starving when the Padre found me.”
Joan’s eyes had softened with a gentle sympathy, but she offered no word.
“’Bout the other,” the man went on, turning back to the girl, and letting his eyes rest on her fair face, “that’s easy, too. I was at the shack of the boys in the storm. You come along an’ wer’ lying right ther’ on the door-sill when I found you. I jest carried you right here. Y’ see, I guessed who you wer’. Your cart was wrecked on the bank o’ the creek——”
“And the teamster?” Joan’s eyes were eagerly appealing.
Buck turned away.
“Oh, guess he was ther’ too.” Then he abruptly moved toward the horses. “Say, I’ll get on an’ cut that hay.”
Joan understood. She knew that the teamster was dead. She sighed deeply, and as the sound reached him Buck looked round. It was on the tip of his tongue to say some word of comfort, for he knew that Joan had understood that the man was dead, but the girl herself, under the influence of her new resolve, made it unnecessary. She rose from her seat, and her manner suggested a forced lightness.
“I’ll go and feed the chickens,” she said. “I—I ought to be capable of doing that.”
Buck smiled as he prepared to go and see to the hogs.
“Guess you won’t have trouble—if you know what to give ’em,” he said.
Nor was he quite sure if the girl were angry or smiling as she hurried out of the barn.
* * *
CHAPTER XVI
GOLD AND ALLOY
The seedling of success planted in rank soil generally develops a wild, pernicious growth which, until the summer of its life has passed, is untameable and pollutes all that with which it comes into contact. The husbandman may pluck at its roots, but the seed is flung broadcast, and he finds himself wringing his hands helplessly in the wilderness.
So it was on the banks of Yellow Creek. The seedling was already flinging its tendrils and fastening tightly upon the life of the little c
amp. The change had come within three weeks of the moment when the Padre had gazed upon that first wonderful find of gold. So rapid was its development that it was almost staggering to the man who stood by watching the result of the news he had first carried to the camp.
The Padre wandered the hills with trap and gun. Nothing could win him from the pursuit which was his. But his eyes were wide open to those things which had somehow become the care of his leisure. Many of his evenings were spent in the camp, and there he saw and heard the things which, in his working moments, gave him food for a disquietude of thought.
He knew that the luck that had come to the camp was no ordinary luck. His first find had suggested something phenomenal, but it was nothing to the reality. A wealth almost incalculable had been yielded by a prodigal Nature. Every claim into which he, with the assistance of the men of the camp, had divided the find, measured carefully and balloted for, was rich beyond all dreams. Two or three were richer than the others, but this was the luck of the ballot, and the natural envy inspired thereby was of a comparatively harmless character.
At first the thought of these things was one of a pleasant satisfaction. These men had waited, and suffered, and starved for their chance, and he was glad their chance had come. How many had waited, and suffered and starved, as they had done, and done all those things in vain? Yes, it was a pleasant thought, and it gave him zest and hope in his own life.
The first days passed in a perfect whirlwind of joy. Where before had sounded only the moanings of despair, now the banks of Yellow Creek rang with laughter and joyous voices, bragging, hoping, jesting. One and all saw their long-dimmed hopes looming bright in the prospect of fulfilment.
Then came a change. Just at first it was hardly noticeable. But it swiftly developed, and the shrewd mind of the watcher in the hills realized that the days of halcyon were passing all too swiftly. Men were no longer satisfied with hopes. They wanted realities.
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