The Golden Woman

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  Yet he knew that the chances must be faced now and at once. For himself he would probably have delayed, rather basking in the sunshine of uncertainty than risk witnessing the swift gathering clouds which must rob him of all light forever. But he was not thinking only of himself. There was that other, that white-haired, lonely man who had said, “Because you love this little Joan.”

  The wonderful unselfishness of the Padre had a greater power to stir Buck’s heart than any other appeal. His sacrifice must not be permitted without a struggle. He knew the man, and he knew how useless mere objection would be. Therefore his duty lay plain before him. Joan must decide, and on her decision must his plans all be founded. He had no reason to hope for a return of his love. On the contrary, it seemed absurd even to hope, and in such an event then the Padre’s sacrifice would be unnecessary. If on the other hand—but he dared not let the thought take shape. All he knew was that with Joan at his side no power of law should touch one single white hair of the Padre’s head, while the breath of life remained in his body.

  It was a big thought in the midst of the most selfish of human passions. It was a thought so wide, that, in every aspect, it spoke of the great world which had been this man’s lifelong study. It told of sublime lessons well learned. Of a mind and heart as big, and broad, and loyal as was the book from which the lessons had been studied.

  With the morning light came a further steadiness of decision. But with it also came an added apprehension, and lack of mental peace. The world was radiant about him with the wonder of his love, but his horizon was lost in a mist of uncertainty and even dread.

  The morning dragged as such intervening hours ever drag, but at length they were done with, and the momentous time arrived. Neither he nor the Padre had referred again to their talk. That was their way. Nor did any question pass between them until Cæsar stood saddled before the door.

  The Padre was leaning against the door casing with his pipe in his mouth. His steady eyes were gravely thoughtful.

  “Where you making this afternoon?” he inquired, as Buck swung into the saddle.

  Buck nodded in the direction of Joan’s home.

  “The farm.”

  The Padre’s eyes smiled kindly.

  “Good luck,” he said. And Buck nodded his thanks as he rode away.

  But Buck’s outward calm was studied. For once in his life his confidence had utterly failed him. He rode over the trail in a dazed condition which left him almost hopeless by the time he reached the familiar corrals of the girl’s home. As a consequence he reduced Cæsar’s pace to a walk with something almost childlike in his desire to postpone what he now felt must be his farewell to the wonderful dream that had been his.

  But even at a walk the journey must come to an end. In his case it came all too soon for his peace of mind, and, to his added disquiet, he found himself at the door of the old barn. Just for one moment he hesitated. Then he lightly dropped to the ground. The next moment the horse itself had taken the initiative. With none of its master’s scruples it clattered into the barn, and, walking straight into its old familiar stall, commenced to search in the corners of the manger for the sweet-scented hay usually awaiting it.

  The lead was irresistible to the man. He followed the creature in, removed its bridle and loosened the cinchas of the saddle. Then he went out in search of hay.

  His quest occupied several minutes. But finally he returned with an ample armful and filled up the manger. Then came upon him a further avalanche of doubt, and he stood beside his horse, stupidly smoothing the beautiful creature’s warm, velvet neck while it nuzzled its fodder.

  “Why—is that you, Buck?”

  The exclamation startled the man out of his reverie and set his pulses hammering madly. He turned to behold Joan framed in the doorway. For a moment he stared stupidly at her, his dark eyes almost fearful. Then his answer came quietly, distinctly, and without a tremor to betray the feelings which really stirred him.

  “It surely is,” he said. Then he added, “I didn’t know I was coming along when you were up at the fort yesterday.”

  But Joan was thinking only how glad she was of his coming. His explanation did not matter in the least. She had been home from the camp something over an hour, and had seen some one ride up to the barn without recognizing Buck or the familiar Cæsar. So she had hastened to investigate. Something of her gladness at sight of him was in the manner of her greeting now, and Buck’s despondency began to fall from him as he realized her unfeigned pleasure.

  “I’m so glad you came,” Joan went on impulsively. “So glad, so glad. I’ve been in camp to order things for—for my aunt’s coming. You know your Padre told me to send for her. I mailed the letter this morning.”

  “You—sent for your aunt?”

  In a moment the whole hideous position of the Padre came upon him, smothering all his own personal feelings, all his pleasure, all his doubts and fears.

  “Why—yes.” Joan’s eyes opened wide in alarm. “Have I done wrong? He said, send for her.”

  Buck shook his head and moved out of the stall.

  “You sure done dead right. The Padre said it.”

  “Then what was the meaning in your—what you said?”

  Buck smiled.

  “Nothing—just nothing.”

  Joan eyed him a moment in some doubt. Then she passed the matter over, and again the pleasure at his coming shone forth.

  “Oh, Buck,” she cried, “there are some mean people in the world. I’ve been talking to that horror, Beasley. He is a horror, isn’t he? He’s been telling me something of the talk of the camp. He’s been telling me how—how popular I am,” she finished up with a mirthless laugh.

  “Popular? I—I don’t get you.”

  Buck’s whole expression had changed at the mention of Beasley’s name. Joan had no reason to inquire his opinion of the storekeeper.

  “You wouldn’t,” she hastened on. “You could never understand such wicked meanness as that man is capable of. I’m sure he hates me, and only told me these—these things to make me miserable. And I was feeling so happy, too, after seeing your Padre,” she added regretfully.

  “An’ what are the things he’s been sayin’?”

  Buck’s jaws were set.

  “Oh, I can’t tell you what he said, except—except that the men think I’m responsible for the death of those two. The other things were too awful. It seems I’m—I’m the talk of the camp in—in an awful way. He says they hate me. But I believe it’s simply him. You see, he’s tried to—to ingratiate himself with me—oh, it’s some time back, and I—well, I never could stand him, after that time when the boys gave me the gold. I wish they had never given me that gold. He still persists it’s unlucky, and I—I’m beginning to think so, too.”

  “Did he—insult you?” Buck asked sharply, ignoring the rest.

  Joan looked quickly into the man’s hot eyes, and in that moment realized the necessity for prudence. The fierce spirit was shining there. That only partly tamed spirit, which made her so glad when she thought of it.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “It wasn’t that he insulted me. No—no. Don’t think that. Only he went out of his way to tell me these things, to make me miserable. I was angry then, but I’ve got over it now. It—it doesn’t matter. You see I just told you because—because——”

  “If that man insulted you, I’d—kill him!”

  Buck had drawn nearer to her. His tall figure was leaning forward, and his eyes, so fiercely alight, burned down into hers in a manner that half frightened her, yet carried with it a feeling that thrilled her heart with an almost painful delight. There was something so magnetic in this man’s outburst, something so sweeping to her responsive nature. It was almost as though he had taken her in his two strong hands and made her yield obedience to his dominating will. It gave her a strange and wonderful confidence. It made her feel as if this power of his must possess the same convincing strength for the rest of the world. That he must sway all who came i
nto contact with him. Her gladness at his visit increased. It was good to feel that he was near at hand.

  But her woman’s mind sought to restrain him.

  “Please—please don’t talk like that,” she said, in a tone that carried no real conviction. “No, Beasley would not dare insult me—for himself.”

  The girl drew back to the oat-box, and seated herself. Buck’s moment of passion had brought a deep flush to his cheeks, and his dark eyes moved restlessly.

  “Why did you tell me?”

  There was no escaping the swift directness of this man’s mind. His question came with little less force than had been his threat against Beasley. He was still lashed by his thought of the wretched saloon-keeper.

  But Joan had no answer ready. Why had she told him? She knew. She knew in a vague sort of way. She had told him because she had been sure of his sympathy. She had told him because she knew his strength, and to lean on that always helped her. Without questioning herself, or her feelings, she had come to rely upon him in all things.

  But his sharp interrogation had given her pause. She repeated his question to herself, and somehow found herself avoiding his gaze. Somehow she could give him no answer.

  Buck chafed for a moment in desperate silence. He turned his hot eyes toward the door, and stared out at the distant hills. Cæsar rattled his collar chain, and scattered the hay in his search for the choicest morsels. The heavy draft horses were slumbering where they stood. Presently the man’s eyes came back to the girl, devouring the beauty of her still averted face.

  “Say,” he went on presently, “you never felt so that your head would burst, so that the only thing worth while doin’ would be to kill some one?” He smiled. “That’s how I feel, when I know Beasley’s been talkin’ to you.”

  Joan turned to him with a responsive smile. She was glad he was talking again. A strange discomfort, a nervousness not altogether unpleasant had somehow taken hold of her, and the sound of his voice relieved her.

  She shook her head.

  “No,” she said frankly. “I—don’t think I ever feel that way. But I don’t like Beasley.”

  Buck’s heat had passed. He laughed.

  “That was sure a fool question to ask,” he said. “Say, it ’ud be like askin’ a dove to get busy with a gun.”

  “I’ve heard doves are by no means the gentle creatures popular belief would have them.”

  “Guess ther’s doves—an’ doves,” Buck said enigmatically. “I can’t jest see you bustin’ to hurt a fly.”

  “Not even Beasley?”

  Joan laughed slily.

  But Buck ignored the challenge. He stirred restlessly. He thrust his fingers into the side pockets of the waist-coat he wore hanging open. He withdrew them, and shifted his feet. Then, with a sudden, impatient movement, he thrust his slouch hat back from his forehead.

  “Guess I can’t say these things right,” he gulped out with a swift, impulsive rush. “What I want to say is that’s how I feel when anything happens amiss your way. I want to say it don’t matter if it’s Beasley, or—or jest things that can’t be helped. I want to get around and set ’em right for you——”

  Joan’s eyes were startled. A sudden pallor had replaced the smile on her lips, and drained the rich, warm color from her cheeks.

  “You’ve always done those things for me, Buck,” she interrupted him hastily. “You’ve been the kindest—the best——”

  “Don’t say those things,” Buck broke in with a hardly restrained passion. “It hurts to hear ’em. Kindest? Best? Say, when a man feels same as me, words like them hurt, hurt right in through here,” he tapped his chest with an awkward gesture. “They drive a man nigh crazy. A man don’t want to hear them from the woman he loves. Yes, loves!”

  The man’s dark eyes were burning, and as the girl rose from her seat he reached out one brown hand to detain her. But his gesture was needless. She made no move to go. She stood before him, her proud young face now flushing, now pale with emotion, her wonderful eyes veiled lest he should read in their depths feelings that she was struggling to conceal. Her rounded bosom rose and fell with the furious beatings of a heart she could not still.

  “No, no,” the man rushed on, “you got to hear me, if it makes you hate me fer the rest of your life. I’m nothing but jest a plain feller who’s lived all his life in this back country. I’ve got no education, nothin’ but jest what I am—here. An’ I love you, I love you like nothing else in all the world. Say,” he went on, the first hot rush of his words checking, “I bin gropin’ around these hills learning all that’s bin set there for me to learn. I tried to learn my lessons right. I done my best. But this one thing they couldn’t teach me. Something which I guess most every feller’s got to learn some time. An’ you’ve taught me that.

  “Say.” The restraint lost its power, and the man’s great passion swept him on in a swift torrent. “I never knew a gal since I was raised. I never knew how she could git right hold of your heart, an’ make the rest of the world seem nothing. I never knew how jest one woman could set the sun shining when her blue eyes smiled, and the storm of thunder crowding over, when those eyes were full of tears. I never dreamed how she could get around in fancy, and walk by your side smilin’ and talkin’ to you when you wandered over these lonesome hills at your work. I never knew how she could come along an’ raise you up when you’re down, an’ most everything looks black. I’ve learned these things now. I’ve learned ’em because you taught me.”

  He laughed with a sort of defiance at what he felt must sound ridiculous in her ears. “You asked me to teach you! Me teach you! Say, it’s you taught me—everything. It’s you taught me life ain’t just a day’s work an’ a night’s sleep. It’s you taught me that life’s a wonderful, wonderful dream of joy an’ delight. It’s you taught me the sun’s shining just for me alone, an’ every breath of these mountains is just to make me feel good. It’s you taught me to feel there’s nothing on God’s earth I couldn’t and wouldn’t do to make you happy. You, who taught me to Live! You, with your wonderful blue eyes, an’ your beautiful, beautiful face. You, with your mind as white an’ pure as the mountain snow, an’ your heart as precious as the gold our folks are forever chasin’. I love you, Joan. I love you, every moment I live. I love you so my two hands ain’t enough by a hundred to get helping you. I love you better than all the world. You’re jest—jest my whole life!”

  He stood with his arms outstretched toward the shrinking girl. His whole body was shaking with the passion that had sent his words pouring in a tide of unthought, unconsidered appeal. He had no understanding of whither his words had carried him. All he knew was that he loved this girl with his whole soul and body. That she could love him in return was something unbelievable, yet he must tell her. He must tell her all that was in his simple heart.

  He waited. It seemed ages, but in reality it was only moments.

  Presently Joan looked up. She raised her eyes timidly, and in a moment Buck saw that they were filled with unshed tears. He started forward, but she shrank back farther. But it was not with repugnance. Her movement was almost reluctant, yet it was decided. It was sufficient for the man, and slowly, hopelessly he dropped his arms to his sides as the girl’s voice so full of distress at last broke the silence.

  “Oh, Buck, Buck, why—oh, why have you said these things to me? You don’t know what you have done. Oh, it was cruel of you.”

  “Cruel?” Buck started. The color faded from his cheeks. “Me cruel—to you?”

  “Yes, yes. Don’t you understand? Can’t you see? Now—now there is nothing left but—disaster. Oh, to think that I should have brought this upon you—you of all men!”

  Buck’s eyes suddenly lit. Unversed as he was in all such matters, he was not blind to the feeling underlying her words. But the light swiftly died from his eyes as he beheld the great tears roll slowly down the girl’s fair cheeks, and her face droop forward into her hands.

  In a moment all restraint was banished in
the uprising of his great love. Without a thought of consequences he bridged the intervening space at one step, and, in an instant, his arms were about the slim, yielding figure he so tenderly loved. In a moment his voice, low, tender, yet wonderful in its consoling strength, was encouraging her.

  “Disaster?” he said. “Disaster because I love you? Where? How? Say, there’s no disaster in my love for you. There can’t be. All I ask, all I need is jest to make your path—easier. Your troubles ain’t yours any longer. They sure ain’t. They’re mine, now, if you’ll jest hand ’em to me. Disaster? No, no, little gal. Don’t you to cry. Don’t. Your eyes weren’t made for cryin’. They’re jest given you to be a man’s hope. For you to see just how much love he’s got for you.”

  Joan submitted to his embrace for just so long as he was speaking. Then she looked up with terrified eyes and released herself.

  “No, no, Buck. I must not listen. I dare not. It is my fate. My terrible fate. You don’t understand. Beasley was right. I was responsible for Ike’s death. For Pete’s death. But not in the way he meant. It is my curse. They loved me, and—disaster followed instantly. Can’t you see? Can’t you see? Oh, my dear, can’t you see that this same disaster must dog you—now?”

  Buck stared. Then he gathered himself together.

  “Your fate?”

  “Yes, yes. I am cursed. Oh,” Joan suddenly gave a shrill laugh that was painful to hear. “Every man that has ever told me—what you have told me—has met with disaster, and—death.”

  For one second no sound broke the stillness of the barn but the restless movements of Cæsar. Then, suddenly, a laugh, a clear, buoyant laugh, full of defiance, full of incredulity, rang through the building.