CHAPTER X
OLD FRIENDS
Into the depths of her scorching self-contempt came his blithe"Good-morning, neighbor."
Her heart leaped, but before she looked around Moya made sure no talescould be read in her face. Her eyes met his with quiet scorn.
"I was wondering if you would dare come." The young woman's voice camecool and aloof as the splash of a mountain rivulet.
"Why shouldn't I come, since I wanted to?"
"You can ask me that--now."
Her manner told him that judgment had been passed, but it did not shakethe cheerful good humor of the man.
"I reckon I can."
"Of course you can. I might have known you could. You will probably havethe effrontery to deny that you are the man who robbed Captain Kilmeny."
"Did he say I was the man?" There was amusement and a touch of interestin his voice.
"He didn't deny it. I knew it must be you. I told him everything--howyou found out from me that he was going to Gunnison with the money andhurried away to rob him of it. Because you are his cousin he wouldn'taccuse you. But I did. I do now. You stole the money a second time." Herwords were low, but in them was an extraordinary vehemence, thetenseness of repressed feeling.
"So he wouldn't accuse me, nor yet wouldn't deny that I was the man.Well, I'll not deny it either, since you're so sure."
"You are wise, sir. You can't delude me a second time. Your denial wouldcount for nothing. And now I think there is nothing more to be said."
She had risen and was about to turn away. A gesture of his hand stoppedher.
"If you were so sure about me why didn't you have the officers here toarrest me?"
"Because--because you are a relative of my friends."
"That was the only reason, was it?"
"What other reason could there be?" she asked, a flash of warning in hereyes.
"There might be this reason--that at the bottom of your heart you know Ididn't do it."
"Can you tell me you didn't hold up Captain Kilmeny? Dare you tell methat?"
He shrugged his broad shoulders. "No, I held him up."
"And robbed him."
"If you like to put it that way. I had to do it."
"Had to rob your friend, the man who had offered to stand by you. Oh, Idon't want to hear any of your excuses."
"Yes, you do," he told her quietly. "What's more, you are going to hearthem--and right now. You're entitled to an explanation, and it's myright to make you listen."
"Can you talk away facts? You robbed your cousin when he was trying tobe your friend. That may mean nothing to you. It means a great deal tome," she cried passionately.
"Sho! An opera bouffe hold-up. I'll make it right with him when I seeCaptain Kilmeny."
"You admit you took the money?"
"Sure I took it. Had to have it in my business. If you'll sit down againand listen, neighbor, I'll tell you the whole story."
The amused assurance in his manner stirred resentment.
"No."
"Yes."
The clash of battle was in the meeting of their eyes. She had courage,just as he had, but she was fighting against her own desire.
"I have listened too often already," she protested.
"It hasn't hurt you any, has it?"
"Lady Farquhar thinks it has." The words slipped out before she couldstop them, but as their import came home to her the girl's face flamed."I mean that--that----"
"I know what you mean," he told her easily, a smile in his shrewd eyes."You're a young woman--and I'm an ineligible man. So Lady Farquharthinks we oughtn't to meet. That's all bosh. I'm not intending to makelove to you, even though I think you're a mighty nice girl. But say Iwas. What then? Your friends can't shut you up in a glass cage if you'regoing to keep on growing. Life was made to be lived."
"Yes.... Yes.... That's what I think," she cried eagerly. "But it isn'tarranged for girls that way--not if they belong to the class I do. We'reshut in--chaperoned from everything that's natural. You don't know how Ihate it."
"Of course you do. You're a live wire. That's why you're going to sitdown and listen to me."
She looked him straight between the eyes. "But I don't think morality isonly a convention, Mr. Kilmeny. 'Thou shalt not steal,' for instance."
"Depends what you steal. If you take from a man what doesn't belong tohim you're doing the community a service. But we won't go into that now,though I'll just say this. What is right for me wouldn't be for CaptainKilmeny. As I told you before, our standards are different."
"Yes, you explained that to me just after you--while you were hidingfrom the officers after the first robbery," she assented dryly.
He looked at her and laughed. "You're prosecuting attorney and judge andjury all in one, aren't you?"
She held her little head uncompromisingly erect. Not again was she goingto let her sympathy for him warp her judgment.
"I'm ready to hear what you have to say, Mr. Kilmeny."
"Not guilty, ma'am."
His jaunty insouciance struck a spark from her. "That is what you toldus before, and within half an hour we found out that you knew where thebooty was hidden. Before that discrepancy was cleared up you convincedus of your innocence by stealing the money a second time."
"What did I do with it?" he asked.
"How should I know?"
From his pocket he drew a note book. Between two of its leaves was aslip of paper which he handed to Moya. It was a receipt in full from thetreasurer of the Gunnison County Fair association to John Kilmeny forthe sum previously taken from him by parties unknown.
The girl looked at him with shining eyes. "You repented and took themoney back?"
"No. I didn't repent, but I took it back."
"Why?"
"That's a long tale. It's tied up with the story of my life--goes backthirty-one years, before I was born, in fact. Want to hear it?"
"Yes."
"My father was a young man when he came to this country. The West wasn'tvery civilized then. My father was fearless and outspoken. This made himenemies among the gang of cattle thieves operating in the country wherehis ranch lay. He lost calves. One day he caught a brand blotter atwork. The fellow refused to surrender. There was a fight, and my fatherkilled him."
"Oh!" cried the girl softly in fascinated horror.
"Such things had to be in those days. Any man that was a man hadsometimes to fight or else go to the wall."
"I can see that. I wasn't blaming your father. Only ... it must havebeen horrible to have to do."
"The fellow thieves of the man swore vengeance. One night they caughtthe chief--that's what I used to call my father--caught him alone in agambling hell in the cow town where the stockmen came to buy provisions.My father had gone there by appointment to meet a man--lured to hisdeath by a forged note. He knew he had probably come to the end of thepassage as soon as he had stepped into the place. His one chance was toturn and run. He wouldn't do that."
"I love him for it," the girl cried impetuously.
"The story goes that he looked them over contemptuously, the whole halfdozen of them, and laughed in a slow irritating way that must have gotunder their hides."
Moya, looking at the son, could believe easily this story of the father."Go on," she nodded tensely.
"The quarrel came, as of course it would. Just before the guns flashed astranger rose from a corner and told the rustlers they would have tocount him in the scrap, that he wouldn't stand for a six to one row."
"Wasn't that fine? I suppose he was a friend of your father he hadhelped some time."
"No. He had never seen him before. But he happened to be a man."
The eyes of the girl were shining. For the moment she was almostbeautiful. A flame seemed to run over her dusky face, the glow of hergenerous heart finding expression externally. It was a part of her charmthat her delight in life bubbled out in little spasms of laughter, inimpetuous movements wholly unpremeditated.
"I'm glad there a
re such men," she cried softly.
"The story of that fight is a classic to-day in the hills. When it endedtwo of the rustlers were dead, two badly wounded, and the othersgalloping away for their lives. The chief and his unknown friend werelying on the floor shot to pieces."
"But they lived--surely they didn't die?"
"Yes, they lived and became close friends. A few years later they werepartners. Both of them are dead now. Sam Lundy--that was the name of myfather's rescuer--left two children, a boy and a girl. We call the boyCurly. He was down at the camp fishing with me."
She saw the truth then--knew in a flash that the man beside her had runthe risk of prison to save his friend. And her heart went out to him insuch a rush of feeling that she had to turn her face away.
"You paid back the debt to the son that your father owed his. Oh, I'mglad--so glad."
"Guessed it, have you?"
"Your friend was the thief."
"He took the money, but he's no thief--not in his heart. In England onlya criminal would do such a thing, but it's different here. A hold-up maybe a decent fellow gone wrong through drink and bad company. That's howit was this time. My friend is a range rider. His heart is as open andclean as the plains. But he's young yet--just turned twenty--and he'seasily led. This thing was sprung on him by an older man with whom hehad been drinking. Before they were sober he and Mosby had taken themoney."
"I am sorry," the girl said, almost under her breath.
There was still some hint of the child in the naive nobility of heryouth. Joyce Seldon would have had no doubts about what to think of thisalien society where an honest man could be a thief and his friend standready to excuse him. Moya found it fresh and stimulating.
He explained more fully. "Colter by chance got a line on what the kidand Mosby were planning to pull off. Knowing I had some influence withCurly, he came straight to me. That was just after the finals in theriding."
"I remember seeing him with you. We all thought you should have come upfor a few words with us."
"I intended to, but there wasn't any time. We hurried out to find Curly.Well, we were too late. Our horses were gone by the time we had reachedthe corral where we were stabling, but those of the other boys werewaiting in the stalls already saddled. We guessed the hold-up would beclose to the bank, because the treasurer of the association might takeany one of three streets to drive in from the fair grounds. That's wherewe went wrong. The boys were just drunk enough not to remember this.Well, while we were looking for our friends so as to stop this crazyplay they were going to pull off, Colter and I met the president of thebank. We had known him in the mining country and he held us theretalking. While we were still there news comes of the robbery."
"And then?"
"We struck straight back to the corral. Our horses were there. The boyshad ridden back, swapped them for their own, and hit the trail. Mosby'sidea had been to throw suspicion on us for an hour or two until theycould make their getaway. We rode back to the crowd, learned theparticulars, and followed the boys. My thought was that if we could getthe money from them we might make terms with the association."
"That's why you were in a hurry when you passed us."
"That's why."
"And of course the sheriff thought you were running away from him."
"He couldn't think anything else, could he?"
"How blind I was--how lacking in faith! And all the time I knew in myheart you couldn't have done it," she reproached herself.
His masterful eyes fastened on her. "Did your friends know it? Did MissJoyce think I couldn't have done it?"
"You'll have to ask her what she thought. I didn't hear Joyce give anopinion."
"Is she going to marry that fellow Verinder?"
"I don't know."
"He'll ask her, won't he?"
She smiled at his blunt question a little wanly. "You'll have to askMr. Verinder that. I'm not in his confidence."
"You're quibbling. You know well enough."
"I think he will."
"Will she take him?"
"It's hard to tell what Joyce will do. I'd rather not discuss thesubject, please. Tell me, did you find your friends?"
"We ran them down in the hills at last. I knew pretty well about wherethey would be and one morning I dropped in on them. We talked it allover and I put it up to them that if they would turn the loot over to meI'd try to call off the officers. Curly was sick and ashamed of thewhole business and was willing to do whatever I thought best. Mosby haddifferent notions, but I persuaded him to see the light. They told mewhere they had hidden the money in the river. I was on my way back toget it when I found little Bess Landor lost in the hills. Gill nabbed meas I took her to the ranch."
"And after you were taken back to Gunnison--Did you break prison?"
"I proved an alibi--one the sheriff couldn't get away from. We hadgilt-edged proof we weren't near the scene of the robbery. The presidentof the bank had been talking to us about ten minutes when the treasurerof the association drove up at a gallop to say he had just beenrobbed."
"So they freed you."
"I made a proposition to the district attorney and the directors of theassociation--that if I got the money back all prosecutions would bedropped. They agreed. I came back for the money and found it gone."
"If you had only told me that then."
"I had no time. My first thought was to tell my cousin the truth, but Iwas afraid to take a chance on him. The only way to save Curly was totake back the money myself. I couldn't be sure that Captain Kilmenywould believe my story. So I played it safe and helped myself."
"You must think a lot of your friend to go so far for him."
"His mother turned him over to me to make a man of him, and if shehadn't I owed it to his father's son."
Her eyes poured upon him their warm approving light. "Yes, you wouldhave to help him, no matter what it cost."
He protested against heroics with a face crinkled to humor. "It wasn'tcosting me a cent."
"It might have cost you a great deal. Suppose that Captain Kilmeny hadpicked up his gun. You couldn't have shot him."
"I'd have told him who I was and why I must have the money. No, MissDwight, I don't fit the specifications of a hero."
Moya's lips curved to the sweet little derisive twist that was a smilein embryo. "I know about you, sir."
Kilmeny took his eyes from her to let them rest upon a man and a womanwalking the river trail below. The man bowed and the Westerner answeredthe greeting by lifting his hat. When he looked back at his companion hewas smiling impishly. For the two by the river bank were Lord and LadyFarquhar.
"Caught! You naughty little baggage! I wonder whether you'll be smackedthis time."
Her eyes met his in a quick surprise that was on the verge of hauteur.
"Sir."
"Yes, I think you'll be smacked. You know you've been told time andagain not to take up with strange boys--and Americans, at that. MithLupton warned you on the _Victorian_--and Lady Farquhar has warned youaplenty."
Her lips parted to speak, but no sound came from them. She was on theverge of a discovery, and he knew it.
"Hope you won't mind the smacking much. Besides, it would be somefingelse if it wasn't this," he continued, mimicking a childish lisp he hadnever forgotten.
"Miss Lupton!"
A fugitive memory flashed across her mind. What she saw was this: aglassy sea after sunset, the cheerful life on the deck of an oceanliner, a little girl playing at--at--why, at selling stars of her ownmanufacture. The picture began to take form. A boy came into it, andvaguely other figures. She recalled impending punishment, intervention,two children snuggled beneath a steamer rug, and last the impulsive kissof a little girl determined to exact the last morsel of joy beforeretribution fell.
"Are you that boy?" she asked, eyes wide open and burning.
"It's harder to believe you're that long-legged little fairy in whitesocks."
"So you knew me ... all the time ... and I didn't k
now you at all."
Her voice trembled. The look she flung toward him was shy and diffident.She had loved him then. She loved him now. Somehow he was infinitelynearer to her than he had been.
"Yes, I knew you. I've always known you. That's because you're a dreamfriend of mine. In the daytime I've had other things to think about, butat night you're a great pal of mine."
"You mean ... before ... we met again?"
"That's what I mean."
The pink surged into her cheeks. "I've dreamed about you too," sheconfessed with an adorable shyness. "How strange it is--to meet againafter all these years."
"Not strange to me. Somehow I expected to meet you. Wasn't that in yourdreams too--that some day we should meet again?"
"I was always meeting you. But--why didn't I know you?"
"I'll confess that I wouldn't have known you if it hadn't been for yourname."
"You think I've changed, then?"
"No, you haven't changed. You've only grown up. You're still a littlerebel. Sometimes you still think it's howwid to be a dirl."
"Only when they won't let me do things," she smiled. "And you reallyremember even my lisp."
"You have a faint hint of it yet sometimes when you are excited."
"I'm excited now--tremendously." She laughed to belie her words, but thenote of agitation was not to be concealed. Her mouth was strangely dryand her heart had a queer uncertain beat. "Why shouldn't I be--with mybaby days popping out at me like this when I thought they were dead andburied? It's ... it's the strangest thing...."
His blood too responded to a quickened beat. He could not understand thereason for it. Since he had no intention of being sentimental he wasdistinctly annoyed at himself. If it had been Joyce Seldon now--well,that would have been another tale.
Over the brow of a hillock appeared Lord and Lady Farquhar walkingtoward them. One glance told Moya that her chaperone had made up hermind to drive Jack Kilmeny from the field. The girl ran forward quickly.
"We've just found out the oddest thing, Lady Farquhar. Mr. Kilmeny and Iare old friends. We met when we were children," she cried quickly.
Lady Jim looked at her husband. He cleared his throat in someembarrassment.
"Mornin', Mr. Kilmeny. If you have time I'd like to have you look oversome ore samples sent from our mine."
The American smiled. He understood perfectly. "I've got all the timethere is."
Moya intervened again. "First let me tell you the news. Mr. Kilmeny hasbeen freed of all suspicion in connection with the robbery. The moneyhas been returned and the whole thing dropped."
Farquhar's face cleared. "Glad to hear it." He emphasized his words, byadding a moment later: "By Jove, I _am_ glad. Congratulations, Mr.Kilmeny."
His wife added hers, but there was a note of reserve in her manner.Plainly she was not fully satisfied.
Eagerly Moya turned to the young man. "May I tell all about it?"
He hesitated, then nodded shortly. "If you like."
Her voice vibrant with sympathy, Moya told the story in her ardent way.Kilmeny said nothing, but the corners of his mouth suggested amusement.Something of humorous derision in his blue eyes told Farquhar that theColoradoan did not take the girl's admiration as his due. Rather, heseemed to regard it merely as an evidence of her young enthusiasm.
Lord Farquhar shook hands frankly with Kilmeny. "We've done you aninjustice. If I had a son I would want him to have played the part youdid under the same circumstances."
His wife backed him up loyally but with misgivings. The character ofthis young man might be cleared but that did not make him any moreeligible. Her smile had in it some suggestion of the reserve of thechaperone.
"I'm glad to know the truth, Mr. Kilmeny. It does you credit. Yourcousins won't be back to lunch but if you can stay----"
"I can't, Lady Farquhar. Thanks just the same. I've got to ride up intothe hills to let the boys know it's all right. We'll be leavingto-morrow to go back to work."
"We go to-morrow too. I suppose this will be good-by, then." LadyFarquhar offered her hand.
Kilmeny turned last to Moya. "Good-by, neighbor."
Her eyes did not shrink as the small hand was buried for an instant inhis brown palm, but the youth in her face was quenched.
"Good-by," she repeated in a colorless voice.
"Sorry I wasn't able to say good-by to my cousins and Miss Seldon. Iunderstand you're all going up to the mines. Tell Captain Kilmeny I'lltry to see him at Goldbanks and make all proper apologies for my badmanners yesterday."
Moya's face lit up. "Do you live at Goldbanks?"
"Sometimes."
He bowed and turned away.
The girl was left wondering. There had been a note of reservation in hismanner when she had spoken of Goldbanks. Was there after all somemystery about him or his occupation, something he did not want them toknow? Her interest was incredibly aroused.
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