The old woman’s domination was strong—it was so strong that Joan felt appalled before the terrible mental force she was putting forth. The horror of her diseased mind sickened her, and filled her with something closely allied to terror. But she would not submit. Her love was greater than her courage, her power to resist for herself. She was thinking of those two men, but most of all she was thinking of Buck. She was determined upon another effort. And when that effort was spent—upon still another.
“Listen to me, aunt,” she cried with no longer any attempt at appeal, with no longer any display of regard for this woman as a relation. “I am mistress in my own house, and I shall do as I choose. I, too, shall sit up and you will have to listen to me.”
Mercy smiled ironically.
“Yes, you are mistress in your own house, so long as you do not attempt to interfere with my plans. Sit up, girl, if you choose, and talk. I am prepared to listen even though your twaddle bores me.”
A sound caught Joan’s attention, and the desperate position of her lover and his friend set thought flashing swiftly through her mind. The sound was of Mrs. Ransford moving in the kitchen.
“Then listen to this,” she cried. “You have told me that I am cursed. You have told me that death and disaster must follow me wherever I go. I love Buck. It is the first and only time I shall ever love. I know that. He is the love of my whole life. Without him, without his love, life to me is inconceivable. He and his love are so precious to me that I would give my life for his at any moment—now, if need be. I want you to know that. You have armed yourself so that I shall not interfere with your plans. I tell you it is useless, for I shall warn him—cost me what it may.”
She watched the other closely. She watched for the effect of her words—every one of which was spoken from the bottom of her heart. The effect was what she anticipated. She knew this woman’s expressed intention was deliberate, and would be carried out. One hand moved toward her lean bosom, and Joan knew, without doubt, what she had to face. Turning her back deliberately she moved across to the window, which was wide open in a vain attempt to cool the superheated room, and took up her place near the table, so that she was in full view of her aunt’s insane eyes. Then she went on at once—
“You call it justice that you would mete out to the Padre. I tell you it is a ruthless, cold-hearted revenge, which amounts to deliberate murder. It is murder because you know he cannot prove his innocence. That, perhaps, is your affair. But Buck’s life is mine. And in threatening the Padre you threaten him, because he will defend his friend to the last. Perhaps by this, in your insane vanity, you hope to justify yourself as a seer and prophetess, instead of being forced to the admission that you are nothing but a mountebank, an unscrupulous mountebank—and even worse. But I will humor you. I will show you how your own words are coming back on you. I had almost forgotten them, so lost was I in my foolish belief in your powers. You told me there was salvation for me in a love that was stronger than death. Well, I have found that love. And if, as you claim, there is truth in your science, then I challenge you, the disaster and death you would now bring about cannot—will not take place. You are only a woman of earthly powers, a heartless creature, half demented by your venomous hatred of a good man. Your ends can, and will be defeated.”
She paused, breathing hard with the emotion which the effort of her denunciation had inspired, and in that pause she beheld a vision of devilish hatred and purpose such as she could never have believed possible in her aunt.
“You would rebel! You challenge me!” cried Mercy, springing from her chair with a movement almost unbelievable in so ailing a creature. “You are mad—utterly mad. It is not I who am insane, but you—you. You call me a mountebank. What has your life been? Has not everything I have told you been part of it? Even here—here. Did I not tell you you could not escape your curse? Have you escaped it? And you think you can escape it now.” She laughed suddenly, a hideous laugh which set Joan shuddering. “The love you have found must prove itself. You say it is the love that will save you. I tell you it is not. Nothing can save this man now. Nothing can save your Buck if he interferes now. Nothing can save you, if you interfere now. I tell you I have taken every care that there is no loophole of escape. No earthly power can serve you.”
“No earthly power?” Joan echoed the words unconsciously, while she stood fascinated by that terrible face so working with malignant hatred.
But only for a moment it held her. Her love was stronger that all her woman’s fears. Her Buck was in danger, and that other. The warning. She must get that warning to them.
Suddenly she leant forward upon the table as though to emphasize what she had to say.
“Whatever happens to-night, aunt,” she cried, her big eyes glowing in a growing excitement, her red-gold hair shining like burnished copper in the light from the lamp which was so near to it, “I hope God may forgive you this terrible wicked spirit which is driving you. Some day I may find it in my heart to forgive you. That which I have to do you are driving me to, and I pray God I may succeed.”
As the last word left her lips she seized the lamp from the table, and, with all her strength, hurled it through the open window. As it sped it extinguished itself and crashed to the ground outside, leaving the room in utter darkness. At the same instant she sprang to the sill of the open window, and flung herself from the room. As she, too, fell to the ground a shot rang out behind her, and she felt the bullet tear through her masses of coiled hair.
But her excitement was at fever heat. She waited for nothing. Her lover’s life was claiming every nerve in her body. His life, and that other’s. She scrambled to her feet and dodged clear of the window, just as a chorus of harsh execration reached her ears. She looked toward the barns and hay corrals whence the sound came, and, on the instant, a hideous terror seized upon her. The barn was afire! The hay had just been fired! And, in the inky blackness of the night, the ruddy glow leapt suddenly and lit up the figures of a crowd of men, now shouting and blaspheming at the result of the shot from the house.
For one moment Joan stood still, trembling in every limb, heedless of the vengeful creature behind her. She was overwhelmed by the now utter and complete hopelessness of her case. Her horses were in the barn which had been fired. And they were her only means of reaching her lover.
Then in a moment, as she beheld the shouting crowd coming toward the house, voicing their intent to burn that, along with its occupants, her mind went back to those still within. The wretched woman, whose death by burning might save the Padre, and her rough but faithful housekeeper. Regardless of all consequences to herself, now regardless even of the lives of those two men she had hoped to save, she ran back to the house.
Flight alone could save the women inside from this drunken crowd. Flight—and at once. For, resentful at the shot which had felled one of their comrades, the lawless minds of these creatures saw but one course to pursue. Well enough Joan knew their doctrine of a life for a life. She must go back. She must save those two from this ravening horde.
* * *
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE TEMPEST BREAKS
Buck moved out of Cæsar’s stall. He had just finished lightly securing the double cinchas of his saddle. The bulging saddle-bags had been made fast behind the cantle and the wallets strapped upon the horn. Now the great animal was hungrily devouring an added feed of oats which his master had poured into its manger.
The man glanced over the equipments, and moved to the other end of the stable, where stood the Padre’s heavily built chestnut. It, too, was ready saddled as though for a journey. Here again the saddle-bags and wallets had been filled and adjusted. Here again the creature was devouring an extra feed.
Buck heaved a sigh of satisfaction and turned away to where the lantern was hanging on a nail in the wooden wall. Close beside this a belt, loaded down with revolver ammunition, and carrying two holsters from which the butts of a pair of heavy revolvers protruded, was suspended from another nail. This
he took down and strapped about his waist.
His work for the night was done, and all his preparations made. The night itself must direct the further course of action for him. As far as he could see he had prepared for every possible development, but, as he admitted to himself, he could only see from his own point of view. He was at work against two opposing forces. There was the law and Bob Richards on the one hand, and, on the other, the Padre, with a determination equal to his own. Of the two, he felt that the redoubtable Bob, backed by the law, would be far the easier to deal with.
This night, he anticipated, was to be the last he spent in that old fort. He more than anticipated it; he felt certain. He had heard early in the day of the return of Joan’s Aunt Mercy, and this was an all-sufficient reason for his belief. Since that moment he had completed every preparation which before he had only tentatively considered; and such matters had been attended to entirely independent of his friend.
This had to be. It was useless to inform him of anything, worse than useless, until the last moment, when he intended that his schemes should be executed to the last detail. After much painful thought he had finally decided upon coercion to gain his ends. No mere bluff, but a straightforward, honest declaration of his intentions. It was very hurtful that he must do this thing. But he could not help it. He had resolved on saving his friend from himself, and no considerations of personal feelings or, in fact, anybody’s feelings, should be allowed to stand in his way. He regarded his duty as a man, and not as a law-abiding citizen. He had no real understanding of the law. His was the only law that guided him, and his law demanded of him, rightly or wrongly, the defense from all harm of those whom he loved.
His manhood dictated this, and he had no thought of personal danger, or toward what painful destiny it might carry him. The future belonged to the future, life and death were things of no more account than waking to daylight, or the profound slumbers of night. Those who would injure him or his friend must be dealt with in the only way he understood. To outwit them was his first thought, but he must defeat their ends if it cost him his life.
This was the man who had learned from the book of Life, as it is written in the earth’s rough places. He was not naturally desperate, but, as with the creatures of the forests, which had taught him so many lessons, when brought to bay in defense of their own, so he was ready to bare his teeth—and use them.
He reached for the lantern with the thought of extinguishing it. But he changed his mind. There was no window that the light might become a beacon. He would close the door and leave it burning.
He turned to pass out, but remained where he was. The Padre was standing in the doorway, and his steady eyes were upon the saddled horses.
Buck had no word of greeting to offer. His dark eyes were intently fixed upon the other’s face. In a moment his friend turned to him.
“It’s just on nine, Buck,” he said, in his kindest fashion. “We haven’t eaten yet—it’s ready.”
It was Buck’s turn to glance over at the horses so busily eating their oats. A curious smile lit his eyes. He knew well enough that the other had more than fathomed the meaning of those preparations. He was glad he had made no attempt to conceal them. That sort of thing was never his way. He had nothing to conceal from his friend.
“I had a few chores to git fixed,” he said easily, indicating the horses. “They’ll sure need a good feed before daylight, I guess.”
The Padre pointed at his belt and revolvers.
“And you’re sleeping in—them.”
“Guess I’m not sleepin’—to-night.”
“No—I suppose not.”
The Padre looked into the strong young face with a speculative glance.
Buck returned his look with a sudden eagerness.
“You heard?” he asked sharply.
“I’ve heard—Mercy is back.”
Buck watched him turn away to continue his survey of the horses.
“So have you—I s’pose,” the older man went on a moment later, indicating the horses.
“Yep. Guess they’ll need to do a long journey soon. Mebbe—to-night.”
“Cæsar?” said the Padre.
“Both,” returned Buck, with an emphasis, the meaning of which could not well be missed.
The Padre’s eyes were smiling. He glanced round the tumbled-down old barn. They had contrived to house their horses very comfortably, and Buck kept them wonderfully cared for. These things appealed to him in a way that made him regret many things.
“Who’s riding—my plug?” the Padre asked deliberately.
Buck shrugged.
“Why ask?” he said doggedly. “Who generally does? I don’t seem to guess we need beat around,” he went on impatiently. “That ain’t bin our way, Padre. Guess those hosses are ready for us. They’ll be ready night an’ day—till the time comes. Then—wal, we’re both goin’ to use ’em.”
The younger man’s impatience had no disturbing effect upon the other. But his smile deepened to a great look of affection.
“Still chewin’ that bone?” he said. Then he shook his head. “What’s the use? We’re just men, you and I; we got our own way of seeing things. Twenty years ago maybe I’d have seen things your way. Twenty years hence no doubt you’ll see things mine——”
“Jest so,” Buck broke in, his eyes lighting, and a strong note suddenly adding force to his interruption. “But I’m not waitin’ twenty years so’s to see things diff’rent.”
“That’s what I should have said—twenty years ago.”
Buck’s face suddenly flushed, and his dark brows drew together as he listened to the calm words of his friend. In a moment his answer was pouring from his lips in a hot tide which swept his hearer along and made him rejoice at the bond which existed between them. Nor, in those moments, could he help feeling glad for that day when he had found the hungry wayfarer at the trail-side.
“Ther’s more than twenty years between us, sure,” Buck cried with intense feeling. “Nuthin’ can alter that, an’ ther’s sure nuthin’ can make us see out o’ the same eyes, nor feel with the same feelin’s. Ther’s nuthin’ can make things seem the same to us. I know that, an’ it ain’t no use you tellin’ me. Guess we’re made diff’rent that way—an’ I allow it’s as well. If we weren’t, wal, I guess neither of us would have things right. See here, Padre, you give most everything to me you could, ever since you brought me along to the farm. That’s because it’s your way to give. I hadn’t nuthin’ to give. I haven’t nuthin’ to give now. I can’t even give way. Guess you can, though, because it’s your nature, and because I’m askin’ it. Padre, I’m goin’ to act mean. I’m goin’ to act so mean it’ll hurt you. But it won’t hurt you more than it’ll hurt me. Mebbe it won’t jest hurt you so much. But I’m goin’ to act that way—because it’s my way—when I’m set up agin it. You’re settin’ me up agin it now.”
He paused, vainly watching the other’s steady eyes for a sign.
“Go on.” The Padre’s smile was undiminished.
Buck made an impatient movement, and pointed at the horses.
“See them? Ther’ they stand,” he cried. “Ther’ they’ll sure stand till we both set out for the long trail. I got it all fixed. I got more than that fixed. See these guns?” He tapped one of the guns at his waist. “They’re loaded plumb up. The belt’s full of shots. I got two repeatin’ rifles stowed away, an’ their magazines are loaded plumb up, too. Wal—unless you say right here you’re goin’ to hit the trail with me, when—things get busy; unless you tell me right out you’re goin’ to let me square off jest a bit of the score you got chalked up agin me all these years by lettin’ me help you out in this racket, then I’m goin’ to set right out ther’ by the old stockade, and when Bob Richards gets around, he an’ as many of his dogone dep’ties as I can pull down are goin’ to get their med’cine. They’ll need to take me with you, Padre. Guess I’m sharin’ that ‘chair’ with you, if they don’t hand it me before I get ther’. What I’m
sayin’ goes, every word of it. This thing goes, jest as sure as I’ll blow Bob Richards to hell before he lays hand on you.”
The younger man’s eyes shone with a passionate determination. There was no mistaking it. His was a fanatical loyalty that was almost staggering.
The Padre drew a sharp breath. He had not studied this youngster for all those years without understanding something of the recklessness he was capable of. Buck’s lips were tightly compressed, his thin nostrils dilating with the intense feeling stirring him. His cheeks were pale, and his dark eyes flashed their burning light in the dim glow of the lantern. He stood with hands gripping, and the muscles of his bare arms writhed beneath the skin with the force with which they clenched. He was strung to an emotion such as the Padre had never before seen in him, and it left the older man wavering.
He glanced away.
“Aren’t we worrying this thing on the crossways?” he said, endeavoring to disguise his real feelings.
But Buck would have none of it. He was in no mood for evasion. In no mood for anything but the straightest of straight talk.
“Ther’s no crosswise to me,” he cried bluntly, with a heat that might almost have been taken for anger. Then, in a moment, his manner changed. His tone softened, and the drawn brows smoothed. “Say, you bin better’n a father to me. You sure have. Can I stand around an’ see you passed over to a low-down sort o’ law that condemns innocent folks? No, Padre, not—not even for Joan’s sake. I jest love that little Joan, Padre. I love her so desprit bad I’d do most anything for her sake. You reckon this thing needs doin’ for her.” He shook his head. “It don’t. An’ if it did, an’ she jest wanted it done—which she don’t—I’d butt in to stop it. Say, I love her that way I want to fix her the happiest gal in this country—in the world. But if seein’ you go to the law without raisin’ a hand to stop it was to make her happy, guess her chances that way ’ud be so small you couldn’t never find ’em. If my life figures in her happiness, an’ I’m savin’ that life while you take your chance of penitentiary an’—the ‘chair,’ wal, I guess she’ll go miserable fer jest as many years as she goes on livin’.”
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