The Girl of the Golden West (23 page)

"I'll let her think I risked coming back to see her again," had
replied the prisoner, his throat trembling.

"She won't know it's for the last time—we'll be there," had come
warningly from the Sheriff as he pointed to the door that led to
the bar-room.

"Why, what have you got the door barred for?" asked the Girl as
she came into the room; and then without waiting for an answer:
"Why, where are the boys?"

"Well, you see, the boys—the boys has—has—" began Nick
confusedly and stopped.

"The boys—" There was a question in the Girl's voice.

"Has gone."

"Gone where?"

"Why, to the Palmetter," came out feebly from Nick; and then
with a sudden change of manner, he added: "Oh, say, Girl, I likes
you!" And here he laid his hand affectionately upon her shoulder.
"You've been my religion—the bar an' you. Why, you don't never want
to leave us—why, I'd drop dead for you."

"Nick, you're very nice to—" began the Girl, gratefully, and
stopped, for at that instant a gentle tap came upon the door.
Turning swiftly, she saw Johnson coming towards her.

"Girl!" he cried in an agony of joy, and held out his arms to
receive her.

"You? You?" she admonished softly.

"Don't say a word," he whispered hurriedly.

"You shouldn't have come back," she said with knitted brow.

"I had to—to say good-bye once more." And his voice was so
filled with tenderness that she readily forgave him for the
indiscretion.

"It's all right, it's all right," murmured Nick, his hand still
on the door, which he had taken the precaution to bolt after the
Girl had passed through it.

There was a moment's silence; then, going over to the windows,
the Girl pulled down the curtains.

"The boys are good for quite a little bit," she said as she came
back. "Don't git nervous—I'll give you warnin'…"

Nick, unwilling to witness the heartrending scene which he
foresaw would follow, noiselessly withdrew into the bar-room,
leaving the prisoner alone with the Girl.

"Don't be afraid, my Girl," said Johnson, softly.

But the Girl's one thought, after her first gladness, was of his
safety:

"But you can't git away now without bein' seen?"

"Yes, there's another way out of Cloudy,—and I'm going to take
it."

The grimness of his meaning was lost on the Girl, who answered
urgently:

"Then go—go! Don't wait, go now!"

Johnson smiled a sad little smile:

"But remember that I'm sorry for the past, and—and don't forget
me," he said, with an odd break in his voice,—so odd that it roused
the Girl into startled wonderment.

"Forget you? Why, Dick…!"

"I mean, till we meet again," he reassured her hastily.

The Girl heaved a troubled sigh. Her fears for him were still on
edge. Then, with a nervous start, she asked:

"Did he call?"

"No. He'll—he'll warn me," Johnson told her unsteadily.

"Oh, every day that dawns I'll wait for a message from you. I'll
feel you wanting me. Every night I'll say to-morrow, and every
to-morrow I'll say to-day… Oh, you've changed the whole world for
me! I can't let you go, but I must, Dick, I must…" And bursting
into tears, she buried her face on his shoulder, repeating
piteously, between shaking sobs, "Oh, I'm so afraid,—I'm so
afraid!"

He held her close, the strength of his arms around her
reassuring her silently. "Why, you mustn't be afraid," he said in
tones that were almost steady. "In a few minutes I'll be quite
free, and then—"

"An' you'll make a little home for me when you're free—soon—will
you?" asked the Girl, with a wan smile dawning on her trembling
lips. She was drying her eyes and did not see how the light died
out of the man's face, as he gazed down at her hungrily,
hopelessly. This time he could not trust himself to speak, but
merely nodded "yes."

"A strange feelin' has come over me," went on the Girl,
brokenly, "a feelin' to hold you—to cling to you—not to let you go.
Somethin' in my heart keeps sayin', 'Don't let him go!'"

Johnson felt his knees sagging oddly beneath him. The Girl's
sure instinct of danger, the piteousness of their case, were making
a coward of him. He tore himself from her in a panic desire to go
while he still had the manhood to play his part to the end; then
suddenly broke down completely, and with his face buried in his
hands, sobbed aloud.

"Why, Girl," he managed to say, brokenly, "it's been worth—the
whole of life just—to know you. You've brought me nearer
Heaven,—you, to love a man like me!"

"Don't say that, Oh, don't say that," she hastened to say with a
great tenderness in her voice. "S'pose you was only a road agent
an' I was a saloon keeper. We both came out o' nothin' an' we met,
but through lovin' we're goin' to reach things now—that's us. We
had to be lifted up like this to be saved."

Johnson tried to speak, but the words would not come. It was,
therefore, with a feeling of relief that, presently, he heard Nick
at the door, saying, "It's all clear now."

Johnson wheeled round, but Nick had flown. Turning once more to
the Girl, he said with trembling lips:

"Good-bye!"

The Girl's face wore a puzzled look, and she told him that he
acted as if they were never going to meet again.

"An' we are, we are, ain't we?" she questioned eagerly.

A faint little smile hovered about the corners of the road
agent's mouth when presently he answered:

"Why, surely we are…"

His words cleared her face instantly.

"I want you to think o' me here jest waitin'," she said. "You
was the first—there'll never be anyone but you. Why, you're the man
I'd want sittin' across the table if there was a little kid like I
was playin' under it. I can't say no more 'n that. Only you—you
will—you must get through safe an' come back—an' well, think o' me
here jest waitin', jest waitin', waitin'…"

At these words a tightness gripped the man's throat, and in the
silence that followed the tears ran steadily down his cheeks.

"Oh, Girl, Girl," at last he said, "that first night I went to
your cabin I saw you kneeling, praying. Say that in your heart
again for me now. Perhaps I believe it—perhaps I don't… I hope I
do—I want to—but say it, say it, Girl, just for the luck of it—say
it…"

Quickly the Girl crossed herself, and while she sent a silent
prayer to Heaven Johnson knelt at her knees, his head bowed
low.

"God bless you," he murmured when the prayer was finished and
arose to his feet; then bending over her hand he touched it softly
with his lips.

"Good-bye!" he said chokingly and started for the door.

"Good-bye!" came slowly in return, her face no less moist than
his. Presently she murmured like one in a dream: "Dick, Dick!"

The man hastened his steps and did not turn. At the door,
however, he burst out in an agony of despair: "Girl! Girl…!"

But when the Girl looked up he had reached the open. She
listened a moment to the retreating steps, then raising her
tear-stained face above her arms, she sobbed out: "He's gone—he's
gone—he's gone…!" She started in pursuit of him, but half-way
across the room she fell into Nick's arms, crying out:

"He's gone, he's gone, he's gone! Dick! Dick! Dick…!"

Terribly affected at the sight of the Girl's sorrow, the little
barkeeper did his best to soothe her, now patting her little blonde
head as it rested upon his arm, now murmuring words of loving
tenderness.

Suddenly she raised her head, and then it was that she saw for
the first time the men standing huddled together near the door. In
a flash the truth of the situation dawned upon her. With a look of
indescribable horror upon her face she turned upon Nick, turned
upon them all with:

"You knew, Nick—you all knew you had 'im! You knew you had 'im
an' you're goin' to kill 'im! But you shan't—no, you shan't kill
'im—you shan't—you shan't…!"

Once more she started in pursuit of her lover, but only to fall
with her face against the door, sobbing as if her heart would
break.

Outside there was nothing in the enchanting scene to suggest
finality. Nature never was more prodigal of her magic beauties. The
sun still shone on the winter whiteness of the majestic mountains;
the great arch of sky was still an azure blue; the wild things
still roamed the great forest at will.

Life indeed was very beautiful.

Minutes passed and still the Girl wept.

A wonderful thing happened then—and as suddenly as it was
characteristic of these impulsive and tender-hearted men. In
thinking over their action long afterwards the Girl recalled how
for an instant she could believe neither her ears nor her eyes.
With Sonora it was credible, at least; but with Rance—it seemed
wonderful to her even when observed through the vista of many
years. And yet, men like Rance more often than not exhibit to the
world the worst side of their nature. It is only when some
cataclysm of feeling bursts that their inner soul is disclosed and
joyously viewed by eyes which have long been accustomed to judging
them solely from the icy and impenetrable reserve which they
invariably wear.

And so it came about that Sonora—first of the two—went over to
her and laid an affectionate hand upon her shoulder.

"Why, Girl," he said, all the kindliness of his gentle nature
flooding his eyes, "the boys an' me ain't perhaps realised jest
what Johnson stood for you, an' hearin' what you said, an' seein'
you prayin' over the cuss—"

Rance's face lit up scornfully.

"The cuss?" he cut in, objecting to a term which is not
infrequently used affectionately.

"Yes, the cuss," repeated Sonora, all the vindictiveness gone
from his heart now. "I got an idee maybe God's back of this 'ere
game."

The Girl's heart was beating fast; she was hoping against hope
when, a moment later, she asked:

"You're not goin' to pull the rope on 'im?"

"You mean I set him free," came from Rance, his tone softer,
gentler than anyone had heard it in some time.

"You set 'im free?" repeated the Girl, timidly, and not daring
to meet his gaze.

"I let him go," announced the Sheriff in spite of himself.

"You let 'im go?" questioned the Girl, still in a daze.

"That's our verdict, an' we're prepared to back it up," declared
Sonora with a smile on his weathered face, though the tears
streamed down his cheeks.

The Girl's face illumined with a great joy. She did not stop now
to dissipate the tears which she saw rolling down Sonora's face, as
was her wont when any of the boys were grieved or distressed, but
fairly flew out of the cabin, calling half-frantically,
half-ecstatically:

"Dick! Dick! You're free! You're free! You're free…!"

The minutes passed and still the miners did not move. They stood
with an air of solemnity gazing silently at one another. Only too
well did they realise what was happening to them. They were
inconsolable. Presently, Sonora, all in a heap on a bench, took out
some tobacco and began to chew it as fast as his mouth would let
him; Happy, going over to the teacher's desk, picked up the bunch
of berries which he had presented her at the opening of the school
session and began to fondle them; while Trinidad, too overcome to
speak, stood leaning against the door, gazing sadly in the
direction that the Girl had taken. As for Rance, after calling to
Nick to bring him a drink, he quietly brought out a pack of cards
from his pocket and, seemingly, became absorbed in a game of
solitaire.

A little while later, his eyes still red from weeping, Nick
remarked:

"The Polka won't never be the same, boys—the Girl's gone."

The soft and velvety blackness of night was giving place to a
pearly grey, and the feathery streaks of a trembling dawn were
shooting heavenward when a man, whose head had been pillowed on a
Mexican saddle, rose from the ground in front of a tepee, made of
blankets on crossed sticks, and seated himself on an old tree-stump
where he proceeded to light a cigarette.

In the little tepee, sheltered by an overhanging rock, the Girl
was still sleeping; and the man, sitting opposite the mound of
earth and rock on which it was built, was Johnson.

A week had passed since the lovers had left Cloudy Mountain, and
each day, at the moment when the sun burst above the snow-capped
mountains, found them up and riding slowly eastward. No attempt
whatever was made at haste, but, instead, now climbing easily to
the top of the passes, now descending into the valleys, they rode
slowly on, ever loathe to leave behind them the great forests and
high mountains.

Noon of each day found them always resting in some glen where
the sun made golden lacework of the branches over their heads;
while at the approach of night when the great orb was no longer to
be seen through the tree-tops and twilight was fast settling upon
the woods, they would halt near a pool of a dancing brook where,
with the relish of fatigue, they would partake of their rations;
and then, when the silences came on, Johnson would proceed to put
up with loving skill the Girl's rude quarters and, stretching
himself out on a gentle slope, covered with pine needles matted
close together, the man and the Girl would go to sleep listening to
the music of the stream as it gurgled and dashed along, foaming and
leaping, over the rocks and beneath the little patches of snow
forgotten by the sun. And to these two, whether in the depths of
the vast forest or, as now, at the edge of the merciless desert,
stretching away like a world without end, their environment seemed
nothing less than a paradise.

There were moments, however, in the long days, which could be
devoted to reflection; and often Johnson pondered over the strange
fate that had brought him under the influence—an influence which
held him now and which he earnestly prayed would continue to hold
him—and into close relationship with a character so different from
his own. A contemplation of his past life was wholly unnecessary,
for the realisation had come to him that it was her personality
alone that had awakened his dormant sense of what was right and
what was wrong, and changed the course of his life. That his future
was full of possibilities, evil as well as good, he was only too
well aware; nevertheless, his faith in himself was that of a strong
man whose powers of resistance, in this case, would be immeasurably
strengthened by constant association with a stronger character.

It was while he was in the midst of these thoughts that the
Girl, without letting him see her, quietly drew the blankets of the
tepee a little to one side and peered out at him. She, too, had not
been without her moments of meditation. Not that she regretted for
an instant that she had committed herself to him irrevocably but,
rather, because she feared lest he should find it difficult to
detach himself, soul and body, from the adventurous life he had
been leading. Such painful communings, however, were rare and
quickly dismissed as unworthy of her; and now as she looked at him
with faith and joy in her eyes, it seemed to her that never before
had she seen him appear so resolute and strong, and she rejoiced
that he belonged to her. At the thought a blush spread over her
features, and it was not until she had drawn the blankets back into
their place that she called from behind them:

"Are you awake, Dick?"

At the sound of her voice the man quickly arose and, going over
to the tepee, he parted the blankets and held them open. And even
as she passed out the greyness of dawn was replaced by silver, and
silver by pink tints which lighted up the pale green of the sage
brush, the dwarf shrubs and clumps of Buffalo grass around them as
well as the darker green of the pines and hemlocks of the foothills
in the near distance.

"Another day, Girl," he said softly. "See, the dawn is
breaking!"

For some moments they stood side by side in silence, the man
thinking of the future, the woman serenely happy and lost in
admiration of the calm beauty of the scene which, in one direction,
at least, differed greatly from anything that she had ever beheld.
Every night previous to the one just passed they had encamped in
the great forests; but now they looked upon a vast expanse of level
plain which to the north and east, stretched trackless and unbroken
by mountain or ravine to an infinitude—the boundless prairies soon
to be mellowed and turned to a golden brown by the shafts of a
burning sun already just below the edge of an horizon aglow with
opaline tints.

The Girl had ever been a lover of nature. All her life the
mystery and silences of the high mountains had appealed to her
soul; but never until now had she realised the marvellous beauty
and glory of the great plains. And yet, though her eyes shone with
the wonder of it all, there was an unmistakably sad and reminiscent
note in the voice that presently murmured:

"Another day."

After a while, and as if under the spell of some unseen power,
she slowly turned and faced the west where she gazed long and
earnestly at the panorama of the snow-capped peaks, rising range
after range, all tipped with dazzling light.

"Oh, Dick, look back!" she cried in distress. "The foothills are
growin' fainter." She paused, but suddenly with a far-off look in
her eyes she went on: "Every dawn—every dawn they'll be farther
away. Some night when I'm goin' to sleep I'll turn an' they won't
be there—red an' shinin'." Again she paused as if almost
overwhelmed with emotion, saying at length with a deep sigh: "Oh,
that was indeed the promised land!"

Johnson was greatly moved. It was some time before he found his
voice. At length he chided her softly:

"We must always look ahead, Girl—not backwards. The promised
land is always ahead."

It was perhaps strange that the Girl failed to see the new
light—the light that reflected his desire for a cleaner life and an
honoured place in another community with her ever at his side—the
hope and faith in his eyes as he spoke; but still in that sad,
reminiscent mood, with her eyes fixed on the dim distances, she
failed to see it, though she replied in a voice of resignation:

"Always ahead—yes, it must be." And then again with tears in her
eyes: "But, Dick, all the people there in Cloudy, how far off they
seem now—like shadows movin' in a dream—like shadows I've dreamt
of. Only a few days ago I clasped their hands—I seen their
faces—their dear faces—I—" She broke off; then while the tears
streamed down her cheeks: "An' now they're fadin'—in this little
while I've lost 'em—lost 'em."

"But through you all my old life has faded away… I have lost
that …" And so saying he stretched out his arms towards her; but
very gently she waved him back with a murmured:

"Not yet!"

For a little while longer her gaze remained on the mountains in
the west. The mist was still over her eyes when she turned again
and saw that the sun was clearing the horizon in opulent
splendour.

"See," she cried with a quick transition of mood, "the sun has
risen in the East—far away—fair an' clear!"

Again Johnson held out his arms to her.

"A new day—a new life—trust me, Girl."

In silence she slipped one hand into his; then she bowed her
head and repeated solemnly:

"Yes—a new life."

Suddenly she drew a little away from him and faced the west
again. Clinging tightly now to him with one hand, and the other
raised high above her head, she cried in a voice that was fraught
with such passionate longing that the man felt himself stirred to
the very depths of his emotions:

"Oh, my mountains, I'm leavin' you! Oh, my California—my lovely
West—my Sierras, I'm leavin' you!" She ended with a sob; but the
next moment throwing herself into Johnson's arms she snuggled
there, murmuring lovingly: "Oh, my home!"

A little while later, happy in their love and fearlessly eager
to meet the trials of the days to come in a new country, they had
mounted their mustangs and were riding eastward.