Читать книгу The Heart of Thunder Mountain - Edfrid A. Bingham - Страница 7

She rode casually down the Brightwater, and casually up the Brightwater; she loitered at crossroads, and tarried at Thompson’s store; and not one glimpse did she catch of Philip Haig. Then one morning she rose at dawn, as she had risen on the day of her fishing exploit, with a purpose. But this time she dressed with exceeding care, in a riding suit she had not yet worn in the Park. It was soft dove-gray in color, with a long coat that showed the fine lines of her figure and, when she rode, revealed snug-fitting breeches above the tops of the polished boots,–a very different costume from the black divided skirts and the short jacket in which she had galloped about the Park.

Thus arrayed and resolute, she rode straight down the valley to the branch road that had once tempted her to adventure; straight up the hill; and straight through the woods until she halted once more in the shade of the outpost pine that stood beyond its clustered fellows like a sentinel above the valley. Her valley! She waited a moment, wondering if it welcomed her. There was the stream, still flashing in the sun, the meadows as brightly green as then, the grass of the pasture running in bronze waves before the breeze. From the heart of a wild rose a gorgeous red and brown butterfly flew out and fluttered over her head. Not a dozen yards below her a meadow lark, unseen, burst into sudden, thrilling song; and somewhere down the hill another took up the strain, then another and another, until the air was charged and quivering with melody, piercing sweet. She listened, her heart throbbing to the music, until the chorus died away in dripping cadences, and only a drowsy murmur came from the ripening fields to mingle with the low droning of the pine organ on the hill. Yes! Her valley welcomed her.

She rode on down the hill, with only a quick and embarrassed glance into the Forbidden Pasture; and suddenly raised herself excitedly in the stirrups. There again was the spiral of blue smoke; then a chimney and a red roof; and finally the house itself, and barn and corrals, all tucked away against the foot of the hill. Dismounting, she led Tuesday back a few yards, and left him to feed along the roadside. Then she returned, and seated herself on a rock, half-hidden by a blackberry bush, to study the group of houses lying low and silent in the sun.

There were more buildings than at Huntington’s, but she saw no beds of flowers, no wide veranda screened with potted plants; a certain bareness and air of inhospitality, she thought. No tea and angel cake for visitors! Behind the ranch house were two cottages of unpainted pine, scorched to a yellow-brown by many a summer sun. One of them, doubtless, was the hermit’s lodge. The barn, larger than Seth’s, had a red roof, newly painted. And in one of the corrals–yes–the flash of a golden hide.

“Sunnysides!” murmured Marion.

Then her heart stood still. She had descried the figure of a man seated with his back against the bars of this corral. But it was not Philip Haig; Sunnysides’ guard, no doubt, for he never left his post until relieved by another an hour or so later, when the dinner bell had been rung at the door of the ranch house.

She had scarcely time to feel her disappointment before a man emerged from the stable leading a saddle horse. Another immediately followed, and this time there was no mistake. The second man was Philip Haig. He mounted quickly, and started off; then stopped to address a word or two, apparently, to the man at the stable door; and finally galloped past the ranch house and the cottages, and up the slope behind them toward the pines, across the valley from where she sat.

“Oh!” cried Marion, in a tone of vexation and reproach.

She watched him until he had disappeared among the trees; and tears started in her eyes. Would he always be riding away from her, behind the hills, the woods, a turn of the road? She sat a while in deep dejection; but not for long. Her spirit was too resilient for futile moping, and her purpose too firmly held to be abandoned on one reverse. She reflected that if he had gone he must as certainly return; and so, with a toss of her head, she presently arose, and fetched her raincoat and her luncheon from the saddle. The coat she spread out on the ground, seated herself on it with her back against the rock, and settled down to eat, and watch, and wait.

Morning mounted hot and humming into noon, and noon dropped languidly into afternoon. The blazing sun centered his rays upon her; insects found and pestered her; discomfort cramped her limbs, and weariness weighted down her eyelids. Twice she dozed, and wakened with a start of fear lest she had slept her chance away. But each time she was reassured by a hurried survey of the group of buildings, where no one stirred, and there was no sign of Philip Haig. So the hours dragged their slow length along.

It was late in the afternoon before her vigil was rewarded. Not from just the direction in which he had galloped away, but from farther up the valley, Haig reappeared. He rode as rapidly as before, straight to the door of the stable, reined up a moment there, and was off again,–this time down the valley on a white road that was visible to Marion until it curved behind the distant point of the ridge on which she sat.

“Now where’s he going?” she murmured, wrinkling her forehead as she saw him once more vanish from her sight.

She did not know that road, but guessed that it joined the main highway somewhere far down the Brightwater. No matter! Here was her opportunity; for she saw, with quick appreciation, that she would now be able to place herself between him and the ranch buildings without showing herself to the men at the corrals. And then? She could not “hold him up” like a highwayman; and if she did not stop him he would raise his hat (perhaps), and ride past her without a word. And how was she to stop him? She had come there with a very definite purpose, but with no clear plan, trusting to the inspiration of the moment. And now the moment had arrived; but where was the inspiration? She had risen impulsively to her feet, and stood staring between narrowed eyelids, and beneath a puckered brow, at the white road, now quite empty again. Then suddenly–

“Ah!” she gasped.

And thereupon she blushed, and looked furtively around her, as if she had been caught in some doubtful, if not discreditable, act. But there was no time for moral subtleties. She staggered–for her legs were stiff from inaction–to her pony, replaced her raincoat behind the saddle, mounted in hot haste, and rode down the steep hill toward the houses. At a little distance from them the road she traveled joined the other. There she turned abruptly, and followed the unfamiliar road until she was safely out of sight of any chance observer at the barn, and yet not so far from the trail she had just left but that she could return to it if, by any chance, he should come back that way.

Dismounting quickly at the chosen spot, she turned Tuesday until he stood squarely across the road. Then her nimble fingers flew at the cinches of the saddle.

“There now!” she exclaimed, hot with excitement and exertion.

She stepped back to view her handiwork, and laughed nervously. Next she drew a tiny mirror and a bit of chamois skin from her bosom, and swiftly removed some of the dust and moisture from her flushed face. Then her hair, always somewhat unruly, required a touch or two. That done, she smoothed down the gray coat over her slender hips, adjusted the gray silk tie at her throat, and waited.

He came, in his habitual cloud of dust; pulled up his pony within ten feet of the obstruction; saw the saddle hanging at a dangerous angle over Tuesday’s side; and accepted the obvious conclusion that Miss Marion Gaylord, looking very warm and embarrassed, but certainly very pretty in her confusion, had narrowly escaped a fall.

“I think I’d better help you with that, Miss Gaylord,” he said.

“Thank you!” she said, with an appealing reluctance. “I can do it–I often saddle my own horse, and–”

“I should judge that you had saddled him this time,” he interrupted her to say, without the slightest trace of irony in his tone.

She bit her lip, as she silently made way for him, and stood at Tuesday’s head, stroking his neck with one small, gloved hand while Haig adjusted the blanket, fitted the saddle firmly, and tightened the double cinch. He was dressed in the nondescript costume he had worn at their first meeting. That same hat, uniquely insolent, soiled and limp and disreputable, was stuck on the back of his head, revealing a full, clean-moulded brow, over which, at one side, his thick black hair fell carelessly. His eyes were calm gray rather than stormy black to-day, but a gray that was singularly dark and deep and luminous. His manner was in the strangest contrast with the two different moods in which she had already seen him–as if the fires were out, as if all emotion and interest had been dissolved in listlessness. And she divined at once that her chance of success was small.

“That will hold, I think,” he said gravely; and started toward his horse.

“It wasn’t Tuesday’s fault,” she said eagerly.

Haig paused, on one foot as it were, and looked over his shoulder.

“It was fortunate for you that he’s been well gentled,” he said. “You should look to your cinches rather often when you ride these hills.”

(“You should keep your feet dry, and come in when it rains,” he might as well have said, she thought angrily.)

“Yes, it was careless of me,” she answered, trying to say it brightly, but really wanting to shriek.

“It happens to everybody once in a while,” he said.

On that, he stepped to his pony, put a foot in the stirrup, and one hand on the saddle horn, and paused.

She could easily have flopped down in the road, and wept. Once he had raged at her, once he had thrilled her with a look, and now he was simply dismissing her,–leaving her, as her father would have put it, “to stew in her own juice.” She saw all her elaborate strategy, her long vigil on the hill, her struggle with the saddle, her appealing’ glances–all, all about to go for nothing.

“He might at least help me on my horse!” she thought, in bitter resentment.

Perhaps tears blinded her. At any rate–and this was without pretence, and no part of her scheme–she did not see clearly what she was doing. It was nothing new to mount her pony from the level; she had done it a hundred times without mishap. But now, in her agitation, she stood somewhat too far away from Tuesday’s shoulder; and the pony, as ponies will sometimes do, started forward the instant he felt the weight in the stirrup.

“Look out!” cried Haig.

It was too late. She missed the saddle; her right foot struck Tuesday’s back, and slipped off; and she fell sprawling on the ground, with her left foot fast in the stirrup.

“Whoa, Tuesday!” she cried shrilly as she fell.

Luckily the horse did not take alarm and run, as a less reliable animal might have done, dragging the girl under his heels. He stopped in his tracks, and stood obediently, even turning his head as if to see what damage had been done. It was enough. Marion was uninjured, but badly frightened; and her humiliation was complete. She lay on her back, struggling vainly to extricate her foot from the stirrup. Her coat skirts had fallen back, and–Thank Heaven for the riding breeches, and not what she had worn under divided skirts!

“Lie still!” yelled Haig, remembering what he had seen happen to men in such circumstances.

In three leaps he was at her side. With a swift movement (and none too gentle), he wrenched her foot loose from the stirrup, and helped her to sit up, dazed and trembling and very white.

“Your ankle–is it hurt?” he asked sharply.

“I don’t know,” she said.

And then the expected “inspiration of the moment” came.

“A little,” she added.

And so it was done. Her foot had indeed been twisted slightly; she had truly, truly felt a twinge of pain. At another time she would have thought no more about it, but now–The color rushed back into her cheeks; she fetched a smile that was half a grimace; and the game was on again.

Haig reached a hand to her. She took it, and let him draw her to her feet.

“Try the ankle–just a step!” he commanded.

She rested her weight on her left foot.

“Oh!” she cried out, and looked helplessly at Haig.

A shadow, unmistakably of annoyance, passed over his face.

“You’re not going to faint, are you?” he asked, looking keenly at her.

Her color always came and went easily, and now, a little frightened by her bold deception, she was pale again.

“No–I think not,” she said. (“At any rate not here,” she might have added.)

“Can you ride to the corrals?” was his next question.

The look of annoyance was now fixed on his face, but it did not discourage her.

“Yes, if–”

She looked doubtfully at Tuesday. Thereupon, without a word, Haig led the horse close to her, but placed so that she was at Tuesday’s right side instead of the left. Then, while she supported herself with one hand on his shoulder, he raised her right foot, and thrust it into the stirrup; and, with a hand under each of her arms, lifted her until she was able to throw the left foot over, and her body into the saddle. Once more Marion bit her lip. His action was as devoid of personal interest as Pete’s had been when he carried her out of the pool; and she had not come to Philip Haig to be treated like a sack of oats!

Haig mounted his pony, and rode up close beside her; and thus, in unbroken silence, they arrived at the door of the stable. There Haig dismounted quickly, stepped briskly around her horse, and almost before she was aware of his intention, lifted her out of the saddle, and set her on her feet–all very carefully and gently, but also very scrupulously, without an unnecessary pressure, without even a glance into her waiting eyes. What was the man made of? Why would he not look at her? Why did he not rage at her–if he could do nothing better? Well, the cat had at least seven lives left!

She almost forgot to limp, but bethought herself in time, and gasped as he led her to an empty soap box at the side of the stable door. Having seated her there, he called out to the man on guard at Sunnysides’ corral: “Where’s Curly?”

“Down by the crick,” was the answer.

“Bring him here! I’ll watch the horse.”

Thereupon he took the man’s place, and stood with his arms crossed on the top rail of the fence, his eyes fixed on the golden horse. And Marion felt a real pain at last,–a pang of jealousy. So he preferred to look at the horse, did he? If he had chanced at that instant to glance at her he would have seen a pair of blue eyes blazing with wrath.

The two men came hurrying from the creek.

“Here, Curly!” said Haig, resigning his post. “Miss Gaylord has hurt her ankle. I found her unseated down the road yonder.” He paused, as if to let that be thoroughly understood. “I want you to hitch up the sorrels and drive her home.”

“Right!” responded Curly, going into the stable.

Marion then did almost faint. She had not foreseen that manœuver.

“I’d rather not, please,” she said, as sweetly as she could in her dismay.

“Rather not what?” asked Haig, turning at last to her.

“I’d rather rest a while–somewhere–” Her glance went past him in the direction of the cottage. “Then I can ride home–alone.”

“And tumble off in the road somewhere!” he retorted, with a touch of derision in his tone.

“Oh, no!” she pleaded. “It’s not as bad as that.”

“No matter! I can’t allow you to take any chances,” he insisted curtly.

“Really, I need only a little rest,” she persisted. “If I could lie down a few minutes–” her eyes again were turned toward the cottage.

He saw what she meant, and frowned.

“No!” he snapped. Then, checking himself, “I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but you ought to know that’s impossible.”

“You mean–Cousin Seth?”

He shot a look at her that frightened her, but gratified her too. Was she rousing him at last?

“Yes, if you like,” he said, quietly enough. “I’m having a hard enough time with the fool without a woman being mixed up in the affair.”

“I don’t understand,” said Marion.

“You don’t understand!” he repeated. “Of course not. Women never understand–until afterwards. I’ll make it plainer. I’m a bad man, as you have doubtless heard. What would Paradise Park say when it learned that you had been inveigled into my house?”

She was silent a moment.

“Well then, let me sit here and rest!” she insisted.

“But why?” he demanded impatiently.

She took her courage in both hands, and plunged.

“I want to talk to you,” she said eagerly. “I want to ask you if there is no way–”

“Excuse me!” he broke in. “I don’t want you to talk to me. If I did–”

He stopped, with a shrug. Marion felt her face reddening, but she dissembled her embarrassment.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

It was spoken archly, in her most playful, most kittenish manner, and so she was amazed to see his face distorted as if by some violent emotion. But he spoke with restraint, though in a tone that was hard and harsh.

“Yes, I am afraid of you. The only thing in the world a man needs to fear is a woman.”

The first effect of this speech was to surprise and shock her. The next was to make her heart leap. Had she come near the secret, after all? Then, finally, something deep in the man’s eyes roused in her a thrill of pity. In another minute she would have melted, in her compassion, and begged him humbly to pardon her. But at that instant Curly emerged from the barn, leading the sorrels; and the devil that lurks behind a woman’s tongue spoke for her before she was aware of it.

“So you’d rather one of your men took me to Cousin Seth!”

It was scarcely out before she regretted it with all her heart. If there was a devil behind her tongue there was another back of the somber shadows in Haig’s eyes. He flashed one comprehending look at her; his whole manner underwent a swift and terrifying change; he was again the Philip Haig of that day at the post office.

“Great!” he exclaimed. “That will be the best joke of all. I’ll drive you home myself, of course.”

For a moment Marion sat very still on the soap box, stunned, staring open-mouthed at Haig. What had she done? That mad speech! Then she leaped to her feet.

“No! No!” she cried. “You shall not!”

He smiled at her.

“Shall not?” he repeated sardonically.

“I mean–please not that!” she faltered.

“Why not?” he demanded, almost gaily.

“Oh, please! I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Of course you didn’t mean it! Women never do mean it–that way. And I suppose you didn’t mean to let those men ride on to Paradise when they told you the horse was mine, did you?”

“Oh!” cried Marion, almost in a scream. “How did you–know?”

He laughed.

“I happened to ask Larkin if he had met nobody on the road who could have directed him. He said there was no one but a ‘purty girl.’ That was you, wasn’t it?”

She was speechless.

“And my warning to Huntington. Did you deliver that?”

“No,” she answered, scarcely above a whisper.

“Of course not. That would have been too simple and honest and direct. You can’t be honest and straightforward to save your lives. You live by deception, and boast about your love of truth. Your deepest craving is for violence, while you prate about your gentle influence over men. I haven’t the least doubt in the world that Mrs. Huntington, for all her baby face, is back of all Huntington’s violence–thinks she’s a wonderful inspiration to him, with a special genius for the cattle business! And when she gets him killed–with your assistance–she’ll flop down, and weep–and you too, both of you–and wail that you didn’t mean it!”

She recoiled from him, and leaned helplessly against the wall of the stable.

“So you let the men ride on to Paradise,” he went on with relentless mockery, “and you let Huntington plunge into that business when you knew, from me, exactly what it meant. And you rode over here to-day–I wonder, now, if your foot’s really hurt, or if that also is some trick!”

It was the merest chance shot. He had no suspicion that she had been shamming, for he had been too much annoyed by the whole incident to be critical of her demeanor. But the shot went home. The girl, without a word or cry, suddenly sank down on the box, with her face buried in her hands.

There ensued a moment of tense silence. For all the bitterness that surged under his railing speech, Haig was not untouched by the sight of the girl, bent and cowering before him. But at the same time he was exasperated anew by the scene that was being enacted under the eyes of his two men.

“Come!” he said presently, not without reluctant gentleness. “It’s growing late. We must start at once.”

The words increased her terror. Through the hands that covered her eyes she could see Haig and Huntington–with revolvers drawn; and Claire’s white face–She rose impulsively, dropping her hands from her hot and tear-stained cheeks. She would confess all to him, though it should betray the inmost secret of her heart; and would beseech him not to go–

“Don’t say it–here!” he commanded sharply, lowering his voice as he bent toward her. “They think there’s something queer about all this. Come!”

She obeyed him silently, her resolution vanishing before his authority. Besides, there was yet time, somewhere on the road.