Читать книгу Complete Novels - Ernest Haycox - Страница 31

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For seventy-two hours Lorena Wyatt kept her solitary vigil by the bunk, her eyes watching his face for the slightest movement, her hands now and then questing across his heart; and for seventy-two hours he lay in the self-same posture of death with only the faint rise and fall of his chest to indicate he still lived. In washing him and binding the cuts about his body she found the bruises on his temple to be only superficial, they were not bullet made, although in receiving them he must have been tremendously battered. On his flank, one long furrow cut through the outer flesh and left a path more sinister to look upon than dangerous. This she had wrapped as well as his head, knowing they would mend, but the deep hole just below and inside his arm socket was another matter. The bullet still lodged there, and whether it was seated in solid flesh or whether it touched his lungs she couldn't tell.

Time was the only mender—time and this man's splendid power of body. There was a doctor in Deadwood, but Lorena knew the medico had gone into the hills a day before to take care of some distant prospector crushed by a slide. And he wouldn't be back until the crisis came and passed with Tom Gillette. So she watched, sitting helpless on the box beside the bunk, occasionally touching him as if wishing to send some message down into the deep pit he had descended; watching him grow grayer and grayer and hearing his breathing shorten and diminish. To Lorena it was agony. She could do nothing but wait—nothing but sit by while he slipped away from her; and through her mind marched the thousand things she wanted to tell him, wanted him to know about herself. After that first cry she set her lips together and never uttered another sound; when she sat her hands locked tightly together; when she rose to replenish the fire her eyes kept straying back to where he lay. Thus the hours dragged interminably. Daylight wasn't so bad, for she could throw open the door and see the sun and let the wind strike her body. There was the sight and the sound of life by day, and it seemed to her Tom held his own during those hours. But at night there were only the blackness and the silence surrounding her little cell, only herself sitting beside him and praying passionately to herself and thinking queer unrelated thoughts...how the shadows fell across the strong bridge of his nose...how much of a man he looked...Christine Ballard sitting on her horse while Tom and the Blond Giant slashed and punished each other. That day Lorena saw the tiger in Tom Gillette and all his quiet reserve and all his humour had been laid aside to reveal the primitive depths. He was a man!

The first night was the longest, for at every stray gust of breeze and every sound she thought Hazel and Saba were returning to thresh the woods again; if they did so they would surely come across her cabin and break in. She put the table against the door and turned down the lamp until the room was dim and shadowy. But they didn't come that night, and at early dawn she left the cabin long enough to run along the trail and retrieve both her basket and the gun Tom had dropped. She wanted to go on to Deadwood, yet didn't dare. Anything might happen during the interval. So the day dragged and the night came once more with her perched on the box and her fists locking each other. And over and over again she tried to throw her will and her desire across the infinite chasm separating them, repeating to herself a thousand times, "You must get well—Tom! You must not die! Here I am, right beside you—waiting for you! You must not die!"

Sleep was the drug she feared, and she sat in the most cramped positions to keep herself awake. Even so the time came when she started out of what had been a sound sleep, to find herself lying on the hard floor. After that she walked the floor in a kind of shame. "I don't deserve to have him. What am I? What can I do for my part in his life? what do I know? Oh, why didn't my mother live to make me a real woman!" And then she bent over Gillette for the hundredth time, to pull the quilt higher up, to let her hands stray across the jet hair; once she kissed him and drew back startled.

That night the woods seemed full of prowling creatures. She heard something rustling the underbrush, she heard the scuff of boots at her very door. And she was swept by all the mixed fear and despair and cold anger of a trapped animal when she saw the latch slowly rise and the door give imperceptibly against the barrier. Then the latch fell back, the brush marked a retreating body, and she relaxed. The man, whoever it was, was lucky; she would have shot him before he made his entrance, for there was something of the wild in Lorena Wyatt these dreary hours. Another time that same night, well along toward morning, she heard a cavalcade gallop down the trail, stop, and go on again. Then it was day—a long-drawn day that marched into the third night. And without warning Tom Gillette turned his head toward her, his eyes clear, and a trace of colour staining the gray of his features. He spoke.

"I'm all right, Lorena girl. Get some sleep. Roll me over and turn in." That was all, he fell into a sound slumber. It was rest this time, not an unconsciousness. The crisis seemed to have come and gone. He would get well.

"Thank God!" she murmured. She dropped to the floor and was lost to the world.

She was roused by Tom's voice. "Girl—get up from the floor!"

The sun streamed in between the cracks of the cabin; she had slept the night through, Gillette moved his head slowly. "Lord, how long has this been goin' on? What day is it, Lorena?"

She rose quickly. "Thursday, Tom. You have been here three nights and two days."

"An' you watched all the time," he murmured, not quite in command of his tongue. But he saw the nod of her head, and it made him fretful. "First sleep you've had, I guess. It won't do."

"I'm all right. Haven't I said nothing could hurt me? But you don't know—you never will know how I felt last night when you turned the corner."

"Me," he murmured, "I don't seem to be carin'. Feel like a wrung dish rag. Ain't dead, but I don't feel much alive. What's the extent of the damages?"

She told him, the meanwhile ripping the blanket from the window and opening the door. She told him, too, of what happened after he fell. Gillette moved one arm gingerly and started to speak, Lorena checked him. "Not now. You've said too much."

"I think I could walk," he muttered.

"No, of course you couldn't. You'll be flat on your back for a week, perhaps two or three weeks. My dear man, don't you understand what happened? They left you for dead—you almost were dead. Now sleep again."

He fell silent, eyes half closed. Something worried him, she saw. And she knew what it was before he broached the subject. "Lorena, I've got to get out of here. I can't be havin' folks—. Well, put me in that shed outside."

She stopped by the bunk, her shoulders squaring. "What difference does it make, Tom?"

"Get somebody to pack me into town."

"And let San Saba know where you are? My dear, I'm going to take care of you. I don't care what happens or who may ever discover it later. Now rest."

"Thoroughbred," whispered Tom, and closed his eyes. She put the room in order, stirred the fire, and poked about the cupboard; she packed water from the spring and presently something simmered on the stove. The man moved restlessly in bed, testing himself joint by joint.

"Legs sound," he murmured. "Right hand and right side in second-hand workin' order. Shucks, it won't be any three weeks."

In a little while she had a bowl of soup for him. He ate it slowly; afterwards he seemed to expand with fresh energy. "It won't even be a week."

But she saw the danger signals on his cheeks already. "Every word you say only adds another day to the time you stay in bed. Sleep now."

He sighed a little and shut his eyes again, instantly he was asleep. The girl watched him for a while, or until a restlessness took possession of her and she began tip-toeing about the place looking for things to do. She wanted to sing, yet dared not, she wanted to work, she wanted to do anything that would release the surcharge of emotion within her. Going outside she took up the ax and chopped boughs for fuel; then she rummaged around the shed for straw and packed enough of it inside to make her a mattress on the floor. Tom would not like it when he saw her making her bed on it, but there was no other way. Strange how simple were a man's points of honour and yet how complicated. As for herself, she looked at it with that ruthlessness and that impersonality most women possess at moments of emergency. Nothing could hurt her—and the creed protected her like a mantle. Had she been a sophisticated girl her thoughts might have travelled a different line, but all her life she had been bred to look squarely at the primary facts of existence.

It was late afternoon before he woke again. She was waiting for him with news.

"I've got to go in to Deadwood, Tom. We've nothing to eat in the place. And I wanted to see if the doctor was back from the hills. Do you think it would be all right?"

"What's the danger?"

"San Saba will be scouting around here, won't he? Supposing he should come to the cabin?"

He studied the ceiling for quite an interval. "Put my gun beside me."

She brought his revolver and laid it in his hand; his fingers closed around the butt slowly. She thought she had never seen so quick and startled a glance in any man as she marked on his face when he tried the trigger. "Judas, I can't be that weak! Trigger must've got jammed in the scrap."

She smiled at the unconscious pride he had in his strength. Even now he couldn't believe himself physically unable to walk. So she took the gun and cocked it and laid it back beside him. His eyes narrowed a little when he saw her do it, and a sigh escaped him. "I guess I'm licked. But there ain't any danger to me. You go ahead."

"I hate to, Tom. Only, we've got to have things to eat. Anything you want?"

"Go ahead. What I want is a preacher to perform a chore for us, Lorena girl, but that'll have to wait till I'm able to argue."

Her hand dropped on his forehead and skittered away. "Perhaps there won't be an argument, Tom." With that, she got her basket, closed the door to the cabin and went quickly down the trail. There had been a prowler around the cabin for she marked the boot prints in the ground; that worried her all the way to town and speeded her actions. The doctor was still away, and nobody knew when he was to return. At the restaurant she explained her absence on the ground of sickness and arranged for more or less of a vacation. She filled her basket and talked the cook out of some fresh apples and a pitcher of milk—both rarities in the camp. At the general store she bought a canvas bed tick and a pair of blue army blankets. Men were gossiping in the store, and she tarried over her bargaining to pick up the news, for she knew Gillette would like to hear something of what went on in the world. Most men did. Then she went back up the slope as the sun fell and shadows closed around the trees.

She thought she was being followed, and with a swift sidestep she dropped off the trail and waited a little while; it was only a man on a horse going upward toward the diggings. A hundred yards farther she swung from the main trail to the smaller trace leading toward the cabin. Something moved out from the concealing shadows, and a man barred her way. It was Lispenard.

His bold, swollen face rolled forward, and as he got a clear view of her he stepped closer, muttering his surprise. "Well, by Godfrey, are you the girl they say lives up here alone?"

"What do you want?" Lorena snapped, muscles gathering. She had dealt with this man before, and she knew what slack and brutal impulses stirred behind his heavy-lidded eyes. Somewhat more than two weeks had elapsed between this meeting and the last; even in that short interval he had grown more slovenly, he advertised more clearly the breakdown of what once had been a will. With this type of man, disintegration was swift once it set in.

"So it's you," he muttered again; she saw the sudden dilation of his nostrils. "Our prairie spitfire. Gad, what luck!"

"Then you're the one who's been skulking around my cabin," said Lorena. "I never knew any human being could be so rotten. If I were a man I'd be ashamed you belonged in the same..." A sudden fear stabbed her. "Have you been rummaging around while I was gone?"

"My interest," replied Lispenard, "is confined solely to you, dear girl."

"Keep those terms off your tongue. And don't come any closer! I won't stand being mauled by you again, hear me?"

"Oh, come. Virtue so high grows dev'lish wearisome. What am I to believe? Here you live alone—you've knocked around the world quite a bit, I'm bound. Lord, girl, don't be uppish. I'm no leper. I'm a man, and you'll look a long while before you find another one able to measure me. Listen, it's a dam' dreary and monotonous world, and why shouldn't we be agreeable to each other? Put it this way: I'll apologize for my last little outbreak and we'll start all over again. There's my word. Give me that luggage and I'll pack it."

"Get away from me!"

"Well," muttered Lispenard, now within arm's reach and growing angry, "who is to stop me? You've got no hero hiding behind the trees this time. I'm going up to the cabin with you."

"No, you are not. Stand aside."

He was grinning. The girl stepped back a pace, her arm dropped into the basket and came up again, holding a revolver. Lispenard's head reared, and all the forced pleasantry left him. "You wouldn't have the nerve to pull the trigger," he jeered.

"Haven't I? Come another step and find out. Let's try that fine courage of yours—you filth!"

"Some day I'll punish you for all that abuse!" cried Lispenard. He stared at her for several moments. "Believe you would fire, at that. Spitfire is the right designation. But you can be tamed, my dear, and I'm the man to do it."

"Get out of the path," she insisted. "Go around me and or down the trail. Don't ever come near my cabin again. If I see you I'll shoot."

She saw a sudden widening of his bold eyes. "I smell rat," he muttered. "I believe I've stumbled onto something. By Gad, I know I have! Who is hiding behind your petticoats? What's all those blankets for—and the grub? You'd better be a little nice to me."

"Must I stand and take all that abuse!" stormed the girl. "How brave you are to be cruel to a woman, how very brave! You are yellow clear through to the bone, Mr. Lispenard. I doubt if a dog would walk beside you!" There was a click of the gun as she cocked it. Her voice shook. "Go around me and down the trail! If ever you come again, I'll kill you!"

He said nothing for a time, but he obeyed the order, circling back of a tree and stepping some yards away. She turned, watching for trickery. His mocking voice floated through the shadows. "Don't protest your virtue too much, my dear. You can ill afford it."

She never stirred until the sound of his retreat was lost somewhere in the main trail. Then she turned up the slope with a heavy heart, came to the cabin, and let herself inside. It was growing darker, and Tom had no word of welcome for her. She dropped the barrier into its sockets with a quick rise of alarm and groped over to hang the blanket across the window again. The lamp wick flared to a match; Gillette was asleep, his hand curled around the gun.

It seemed to her that some special providence watched over this man. How could it be otherwise when Lispenard stood within a few yards of the cabin yet had not entered? And should she tell Tom of the other man's presence? She debated this silently. He needed to know it for his own safety, yet the knowledge would only add another worry to an already long list. She was strong—she could fight this thing out until Tom stood ready to take it over. She wouldn't tell him until he walked again.

After Tom Gillette discovered he was a sick man and a woefully weak man he made no more attempts to force the recovery. There was a hard wisdom in him. He knew when to fight, and he knew when to ride with the current, so he mustered his patience and for better than a week he rested flat on his back, saying very little; alternately sleeping and drowsing along with his eyes half closed. During these latter hours he seemed to be in a profound study, staring straight up to the ceiling. These were sombre hours, the girl knew, and she respected his silences. That was the way he had been fashioned, he was no hand to talk; as for herself, she had little enough to say now that the crisis was past. What went on in her heart, what was stored there, would never come out, and she was content that it was to be thus. But on occasions she turned to find him looking at her so quietly and so steadily that a queer runner of emotion swept though her and the quickened tempo of her heart sent the telltale blood to her cheeks. Time and again she saw the very words trembling on his lips, yet he never spoke them. It puzzled her, as the days went on, and presently a doubt and a dread came to her. What was he thinking? A man's code was sometimes unfathomable, sometimes judgments were passed in secret by that code, and then never again were things the same. What was he thinking?

But she was soon to find out. For, one day in the second week, he turned toward her, wide awake and with an unusual intentness on his face. "Come over here, Lorena."

She came beside him. "Yes?"

"Take hold of my hand. Squeeze it as tight as you can."

She obeyed, wondering. Gillette seemed to be experimenting with himself. "Fine. Now let me see what I can do." So she let her fingers grow limp while his own slowly closed in, then relaxed. He rested a moment. "I reckon I've been a pretty good Indian—played 'possum to help old lady Nature. You go outside a minute, Lorena girl."

"Now, Tom..."

He barely smiled. "Oh, I'm not going to be foolish. But a lot depends on this."

She went out and started a few yards down the trail. Presently she heard him calling, and she whipped around and ran back inside. He was on his feet, the blanket wrapped around him, supported by nothing at all save his own strength. And he was grinning wanly, he was triumphant. "I'm sound. By Joe, I'm sound."

"Oh, Tom, that wasn't necessary yet. You mustn't overdo."

"I had to find out," said he, quite grim. Then he sat back on the bed and rolled himself in. "Didn't I tell you a lot depended on it? Listen, is there any chance for me?"

She turned away from him and walked toward the window. The width of the room was athwart them, and to the man it appeared the width of the universe stretched between. He watched her and, as always, he was immeasurably stirred by the clear oval of her face and the round sturdiness of her body. She was straightforward, she never traded with him, and sometimes he had seen a light in her eyes that left him humble. At that moment he thought he never had seen a woman so piquant, so alluring and lovely.

"I am yours, Tom."

Just that. Spoken slow and just above a whisper. Gillette gripped his fists together, his whole face tightened as if in pain. "Lorena girl, you will never want, you will never regret it. I'd sweep this land..."

"Oh, Tom, I'm not sure I'll ever be any help to you! What am I—what do I know—what can I do!"

"Stop that! There's no man fit for you. Not one! But I'll try—come over here, Lorena. I'm sound of body, anyhow. That's why I had to find out before asking you."

"What difference would that have made to me?" she cried.

"Maybe none, to you. But everything to me. By Joe, but it's a fine day outside. I'd like to be riding—I'd like to warble." He was smiling as she put her arm across his shoulder. And when they looked to each other there was a kindling and a flashing of some deep flame.

"Too much has passed between us for it to end any other way," he muttered.

"I am yours, Tom," she repeated.

It was an hour or so later before she reminded him there was no food in the cabin. There was another trip to town, and the sooner it was done the better. She got her basket and brought him his gun. This time his fingers closed about it firmly. "I can handle the blamed thing now. Lord, but I hate to see you doing all this fetch-and-carry for me."

"Why? Won't I be doing it the rest of my life?" She saw his quick frown of disavowal and a swift, rippling laugh rang across the small room. "Of course! I want to do it—every woman someday hopes to do it. And I'm strong—nothing can hurt me."

"I'll make it so you'll never have to lift as much as your little finger," he promised.

She smiled and went out and down the trail. There was a man speaking—so direct and practical in some things, so thoroughly impractical in others. She was only just across the border of womanhood, yet she saw ahead of her with that instinctive clarity of her sex. Men promised to make life easy and believed they had the power of doing it. Yet life was not that way. There would always be pain and tragedy and bitterness in the years, along with the blessings. That was life. But she was strong, and the future held no terrors. For she had the man she wanted, she had everything she wanted, and she stood ready to pay for her bargain.

The day was fresh and clear; the sun shot through the tree lanes and sparkled on the creek below. She thought she never had seen a day so wonderful, nor had the joy of living ever surged through her so powerfully as on this morning. She forgot Lispenard and San Saba and all the unravelled business yet hanging over her head. So she walked down the slope, humming an old trail song to herself, and came into Deadwood.

The town seemed unusually active for a morning, the streets were filled, and a kind of holiday air permeated the place. American flags draped the hotel, and a great banner bearing the single word "welcome" stretched across the thoroughfare. She saw the prominent men of the camp gathered at the far end, all dressed to the fashion and Deadwood's band stood near them, instruments slung up to play. Turning into the restaurant, Lorena came across the proprietor and asked him what it was all about.

"Billy Costaine's comin'," said the proprietor, as if that were all the explanation anybody needed. The name meant nothing to Lorena, and she shrugged her shoulders, dismissing the matter. There were more important things to think about than some remote notable. The proprietor, noting her professed ignorance, was mildly scandalized.

"Great snakes, girl, Billy Costaine's a U. S. Senator. That breed o' cat don't stray into the hills very often. More than that, he happens to be chairman of the public lands committee, and he can sure help Deadwood. You bet we'll show him the sights. When you comin' back to work?"

She didn't know when, if ever, and told him as much. In the kitchen she filled her basket, chatted awhile with the cook, and reached the street just as the band struck up a tune; the harmony was a little off, but the volume was sufficient to prick the nerves of every horse on the street, and for a few moments there was an informal rodeo and bucking contest. Guns began to crack, men swept along the way yelling and down at the far end a party rode slowly into the town as if on parade. Lorena craned her neck to watch; an arm touched her, and an absymally deep and mournful voice said thrice over:

"Hey, ma'am—ma'am—doggonit, ma'am!"

It was Quagmire, his gloom-ridden, wrinkled face as near a smile as it ever came. He was travel strained, he was gaunt and he looked to her almost with appeal. "Doggonit, ma'am, it's shore elevatin' to see yo'. Deadwood—shucks, what a town. I been here six mortal days, stepped on, pushed aside, and about stranglin' fer fresh air. Ma'am, what you livin' in sech a hog- waller for?"

"Why, Quagmire! Oh, but I'm glad to see you! Come back here." She pulled him toward the bulding walls, removed from the crowd. "Are you looking for Tom?"

"I'll announce it far an' wide I am," he muttered. "About give up hope, too."

"He's up at my cabin, Quagmire. Sixteen days ago he was shot and nearly killed. He's just able to move about now."

Quagmire studied her long and earnestly. Something happened inside him. "Who did it—San Saba?"

She nodded. "And several other men with him—Hazel's gang. I've been hiding him. If they knew where he was they'd kill him surely. You've come just at the right time. He'll be riding some of these days, as weak as he is. And they'll try to get him again."

He turned away, muttering to himself. When he swung about again his eyes were tinged with red. "Sorrer is the rule in this here universe, but it ain't no reason why bad luck should roost on a Gillette forever. Too much has happened to that boy. Now, by Judas, I'll play a stack in this. Lead the way."

Horsemen swept past, the band flared. Lorena looked out directly upon the distinguished visitor to Deadwood, Senator William Costaine. The Senator was a big man with an angular framework and the face of a bloodhound. There was no fellowship in the steel-tinted eyes that swept the crowd, no leaven of humour on the gray fighter's face. Here was a man who had been through the mill, who had emerged at the top of his profession with few illusions and no fear. It looked as if he was thinking, "What's the joker behind this celebration?" yet he was saved from downright cynicism by an air of intense honesty. Lorena, of course, was not aware of his reputation; but back in Washington he was the scourge of the lobbyists. He hunted them with the same ruthless pleasure he would have hunted predatory animals. His cold, legalistic brain infallibly sought for the hidden clauses, the quietly inserted riders; and when he spoke in the Senate men listened, even while some of them were being stripped of their reputations. He worked with nobody, he was a hater of compromise; and therefore the Senator was almost entirely a destructive force. But because of that very caustic quality he was a valued and respected servant.

Quagmire shook his head. "Reckon he'd be a bad man to meet out on the road. Le' go, ma'm."

As the two of them went up the slope, Quagmire leading his horse, Lorena told him all she knew of the encounter. She even mentioned her meeting with Lispenard. Quagmire grew more and more taciturn. "I reckon Tom's got yo' to thank for bein' alive," he muttered. The girl said nothing, but the puncher saw her face and nodded to himself sagely. "Yeah, I see." And still he seemed wrapped in despair until they left the main trail and progressed along the smaller pathway. The cabin appeared between the pines. Tom Gillette stood in the doorway, sunning himself. The two men came face to face, and when Lorena saw how they looked at each other and struggled to maintain a grave and casual expression, a lump rose in her throat.

"Well, Quagmire."

"Yeah, Tom."

"Ranch burn up or did you fire yourself?"

"Figgered I'd give m'self a vacation an' go see the flesh- pots. What's the use o' bein' jef if yo' can't cut a caper? Been engaged in a little lead traffic, fella?"

"Some. Well, get it off your chest."

"Get what off?" mumbled Quagmire defensively. "Nothin' on it but a dirty shirt."

Tom shook his head and waited. Quagmire turned to the girl. "Ain't he a gloomy fool? Why should I have bad news? Ain't we got enough? An' if I got bad news why can't it wait? Anyhow, they's lots o' land in Dakota even if we been told to move from present headquarters. Never did think much of our range—let Grist an' his Eastern bosses have it if they want it so cussed bad. Of course, a writ o' eviction has got to be obeyed, but mebbe they's ways to flank it. Me, I allus thought we'd filed on the water we said we filed on, but if they's been a mistake made in figgers—like they claim—why, then whose fault is it, the surveyor's, ours, or the land agent's? I'm askin'."

"Spoken like a lawyer," muttered Tom gravely. "Come in and find a chair. Now that you're empty you might float away."

"Wait," interrupted the girl. "What are you telling us, Quagmire? That Tom is being forced off his ranch?"

"Yeah," drawled Quagmire.

"Come inside," repeated Tom. The three of them went into the house. Gillette sat on the bunk and rolled himself a cigarette, never saying a word, but the girl observed a cloud passing across his eyes, and she felt infinitely sorry for him.

"But how can they do that?" she demanded. "Haven't you filed on it? How can they take it away from you?"

"Which is what I'm wanting to know," said Gillette.

Quagmire raised his two hands, palms up. "What I sorter gathered was they was a mistake in figgers, and the water yo' filed on ain't the water you're roostin' on."

"I've heard of such jugglin' before," murmured Tom. "Well, Grist said he'd get me, one way or another. Rustlin' didn't work, so he's turned to another kind of crookedness."

"Yo' better hit home right off," said Quagmire. "The marshal said he'd wait till yo' returned, but mebbe that Grist fella can force the transaction."

"I'll have to scotch it," agreed Gillette.

"Yes, but you can't travel for another week, Tom," objected Lorena. "You're not fit."

"An', by the way," put in Quagmire with marked casualness, "this Grist hombre's also got a warrant agin yo' fo' killin' his range boss."

Gillette swung his head. That seemed to touch him more than anything else. "The man's ridin' for a fall, Quagmire! By Judas, he's pressin' too far. I'll fight that outfit until something breaks—and there's gospel."

The girl, meanwhile, had gone about getting a meal. But in the midst of this chore she had a sudden idea, and she abandoned everything and entered the discussion again. "Tom, are you sure the P.R.N. is behind all this?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Well, isn't all this land in the hands of the government—doesn't the government have control of the disposal of it?"

"That's right, too."

She stood in the doorway, looking down the trail. "I have heard my father say some queer things about the P.R.N: If they are crooked, why doesn't the government stop them?"

"Because it's a long way to Washington," said Gillette. "The people behind the P.R.N. are pretty smart—and evidently they've got plenty of influence. Money will go a long way, Lorena."

"It isn't right," she murmured. "I don't believe the government would allow it."

Quagmire looked at Gillette; the two of them exchanged faint smiles. "It won't do us any good to squeal, Lorena. We can't squeal loud enough. We've got to battle it out the best we can."

"It isn't right," she insisted. "I'm going outside a little while."

She hurried away from the cabin and toward Deadwood again, just a little anxious lest Gillette should divine her intention and call her back. The truth was, Lorena believed implicitly in the honesty and the pervading powerfulness of the law. She had none of a man's cynicism concerning it, and whenever she saw those two symbolic letters—U. S.—she had a picture of solemn men sitting in a row, covered by black robes and with a flag hanging above them. She knew state law could be evaded; her own father had done it. But a national law was something different, and it seemed incredible that any corporation could openly steal government land and not be prosecuted.

"It's just that nobody knows," she told herself. "If I can only see..."

She reached town and went quickly to the hotel. The lobby was crowded with men, reeking with tobacco smoke. Senator Costaine sat in a chair at a far corner, listening to some sort of a delegation. Lorena drew her nether lip between her teeth and mustered her courage. What would all these men think of her for breaking in—what would the Senator say to her for the interruption? She almost lost heart as she watched the man. He looked so grim and inaccessible, be represented something so great. And, after all, she was but a girl. Then she thought of Tom Gillette, and she squared her small shoulders and slipped through the crowd.

The Senator saw her standing in front of him. Being a man of courtesy, he rose, interrupting a flood of talk with a motion of his arm. For Lorena with her piquant features and her black eyes made a striking picture—even more striking at the moment because of a certain nervous snapping of those eyes. She made a pleasant distraction. The Senator, as a matter of literal fact, was tired of the smoke and the heavy jests and the dingdong of figures and facts and the representations and the pleadings. All this was an old story. It never varied. He smiled at the girl, whereat his features became almost pleasant.

"Senator Costaine," said the girl, conscious of a hundred eyes watching her, "I—I would like a word with you."

"Certainly," agreed the Senator. He took her by the arm and moved away to a more secluded angle of the room. "You must not be flustered by men in the mass," he reassured her. "They have no more power to hurt you than singly."

"But they have," said Lorena, turning. "That's why I've come to see you. Senator, could you spare an hour and walk a half mile up the hillside to see a man?"

"My dear lady, if I tried to escape from these gentlemen my life would be worth nothing. Perhaps if you could state, more or less briefly, what the occasion was..."

"I know you are very busy," she apologized. "But there is a man up the slope just recovering from an attempt made on his life. He isn't able to come here, and even if he were able, I don't believe he would. I do this on my own responsibility. He has a ranch over near Nelson. Several Texans migrated there this year. All were bought out by a certain corporation, except Tom—except this man. He refused to bargain. The corporation has tried to run him away, they have tried to rustle his stock. And now they are tampering with his water right through the local land office. Senator Costaine, why doesn't the government stop such things?"

The question brought a remote smile to his fighter's face. "If I could answer that question I would be a great man. The government is composed of human beings, and it is human to err."

An immaculately dressed young man drew near the Senator, speaking urgently. "You've only a half hour for lunch, Senator. We are due to ride into the hills directly after."

"Yes—yes," muttered the Senator. He looked to the girl. "As to this gentleman's affairs, that is a matter for court action. If there is fraud—provable fraud—then I'm sure it will be taken care of."

She saw he was about to slip away. "Can you always prove the unjust things that happen? You know you can't."

"True. But how can you expect the United States government to do much better? I should like to help you, but I'm certain I couldn't do much good. It's a matter for the district attorney over there. And now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Senator, do you know of the P.R.N. Land Company?"

His attention had wandered; at the question it came back to her and his steel-coloured eyes seemed to narrow and focus. It was as if a powerful light flashed on her face. What little pleasantry his features held up until then vanished. "Was that corporation involved?" he asked sharply.

"Yes."

"I shall be extremely interested in meeting your man," he said, and motioned to the immaculate secretary hovering anxiously at hand. "Nicholas, I'm going out for an hour. No—no. I don't give a rap if lunch does get cold. Ward off these fellows for me—keep 'em humoured. And now," turning to Lorena, "I shall be pleased to follow you."

Lorena led him into the street and toward the trail. Three or four prominent citizens came along in hot pursuit; Costaine waved them back, and thus the two of them struck up the slope, saying not a word. Lorena had fought a battle, she had nothing more to offer. And the Senator seemed buried in his own thoughts. They cut off the main trail and went up the short little pathway to the cabin. The Senator looked to her inquiringly, and she motioned him inside. Tom and Quagmire apparently had seen them come, for they were standing in the centre of the room.

"Tom, this is Senator Costaine. I have told him about your trouble with the ranch. I know he can help you if you'll explain."

With that she turned about and left, hearing the dry, rasping voice of Costaine carry an abrupt question over the interval. It was almost as if the man cross-examined a witness. Lorena sat on a stump and waited. A half hour, an hour; the immaculate secretary came panting up among the trees. "Where in God's name is the Senator? What have you done with him?"

Costaine ducked out of the door, grimmer than before. The secretary spread his arms. "They're waiting for us—and you've had no lunch. It will be an all-afternoon trip into the hills. I can't allow you to neglect yourself like this, Senator!"

Costaine seemed not to hear the man. He stood a moment in front of Lorena. "My dear girl, you have rendered me a favour. I think we have got wind of something that will scorch as big a scoundrel as ever lived." Then he swung down the trail with the secretary, and she heard him giving the younger man abrupt orders. "Never mind, Nicholas, never mind. What's a meal missed? I've discovered something about Ignacius Invering's peree. He's a gone goose, Nicholas. As for the trip into the hills, that must be postponed. We start for Nelson immediately."

With Quagmire on hand to keep watch and with Tom mending swiftly—and becoming more and more impatient at each wasted hour—Lorena was relieved of her long vigil. The men slept out in the shed and took their meals in the cabin; and during the following five days she often saw them loitering in the trees, out of earshot, talking earnestly. She never intruded on these councils; rather she drew back within herself and went about those innumerable chores a woman never fails to find. If she had her worries—and she understood that as far as San Saba and Lispenard were concerned there was yet to be a day of reckoning—she kept them hidden. No matter what the future held, it could never by any stretch of the imagination deal with her as harshly as had the past month. And so she was content.

One day Quagmire went to Deadwood and returned with a horse and saddle for Tom; and for an hour the latter rode around the hills, testing himself. When he came back, he slid down with a kind of tight-lipped triumph. Still he said nothing, but she observed that Quagmire made a second trip to town for supplies. And that night at supper the puncher sent a mysterious glance at Gillette and murmured, "Well, I got it."

At breakfast the next morning Gillette seemed unusually preoccupied. Quagmire left the cabin and disappeared in the thicket; and as if that were a signal Gillette came directly to the issue. "We can't stay put any longer, Lorena. I came here to get San Saba, and instead he about got me. Well, it's just a score I'll have to leave unsettled. If I don't hustle back to the ranch I'm apt not to have one. So we've got to pull out."

She was of a sudden busy at a dozen odd things, and each of those things seemed to keep her face turned from the man.

"Lorena—it still goes, doesn't it?"

"I don't change overnight, Tom."

"Well, I didn't think so, but a man like me can't expect too much good luck, so I figured I'd better make sure. But—but look here."

She turned. Gillette stood with his back to the wall, looking harried. "You've got to know something. Quagmire only told me last night, and if it makes any difference to you, the fact is, Kit Ballard is still there at the ranch, and she told Quagmire she was waiting. I want you to know I'm free. What's past is past—and cold as ashes. I didn't ask her to come, I didn't want her to come, and I'm under no obligations. You know where my heart is, Lorena."

"That is your own affair, Tom. I told you once I'd never pry into it."

"Well, you've got a right to know what you're jumping into. Fifteen minutes after we get home she'll have to pack her trunk—but I wouldn't want you to come up against that situation without knowing of it."

She walked over to him, and one hand dropped lightly on his shoulder. She went up a-tiptoe better to meet his eyes. "Whatever happens, I will never doubt you. Never! And I want you to believe the same about me. Oh, Tom, sometimes the whole thing frightens me—it seems as if it can't be true!"

He gathered her into his arms. "By Judas, what right have I got of doubting? You bet it's true. Quagmire and I are riding into town now to settle our affairs. I'll be bringing back a preacher—and a spring bed wagon and team for you to ride in."

"That's not necessary. I can ride the saddle, it will bring us home quicker."

"Nothing's good enough for my wife," said he gaily. He kissed her and turned out of the door, red-faced. Lorena's silver laugh followed him down the slope and from the distance he turned to grin at her. "You've got to remember I'm not used to this sort of thing yet."

"Some day it will be so old a story you'll forget."

"Not while sun shines or grass grows!"

Quagmire came out of the trees and joined Tom. Together the two of them followed the trail to town. Quagmire already had dickered for a wagon and a team, and Tom verified the bargain, paid for it, and went rummaging around the stores for accessories. He bought a light tent, a patented oven, and sundry dishes. He bought this and he bought that while Quagmire made relays from store to wagon, gloomy and skeptical. When all the purchasing was done and Gillette returned to the wagon he was somewhat staggered at the burden it made. Quagmire only spat on the ground and echoed a scant phrase.

"Yo' figgerin' to enter the freight business? Better hire six more hosses."

"Hush," grinned Gillette. "On a day like this I'm apt to do 'most anything. Quagmire, nothing's good enough for that girl. Now where's a preacher?"

No more than an hour elapsed from the time they entered Deadwood to the time they crawled upward through the trees. The smaller trail would not admit the wagon, and they were forced around in and out of the occasional alleyways. Gillette hallooed at the cabin and jammed on the brakes impatiently. Quagmire kept his seat, and the parson gingerly slid down and combed his whiskers with his fingers. Gillette walked toward the open door.

"Lorena—all right, Lorena."

She had no answer for him. When he looked into the cabin all the humour and the anticipation were swept from his face. She was not there. And that was only a part of the story, for every movable piece of furniture in the room was overturned, dishes were shattered, and his questing eyes saw a piece of her dress as big as his hand and ripped on all sides lying on the floor. That room had seen a tremendous struggle. Lorena had been kidnapped!