They of the High Trails Page 18

  Peggy put some food before him and ordered him into silence. "Talk later," she said.

  The outlaw turned to Alice. "That explains it. Your Professor Ward trusted to this man to take care of you and stayed in camp. You can't blame him."

  Gage seemed to have suddenly become old, almost childish. "I never was lost before," he muttered, sadly. "I reckon something must have went wrong in my head. 'Pears like I'm gettin' old and foolish."

  Alice exchanged glances with the outlaw. It was plain that he was in no danger from this dazed and weakened old man who could think of nothing but the loss of his sense of direction.

  As the day advanced the sun burned clear. At noon it was warm enough to leave the door open, and Alice, catching glimpses of the flaming world of silver and purple and gold, was filled with a desire to quit her dark corner.

  "I'm going to get up!" she exclaimed. "I won't lie here any longer."

  "Don't try it!" protested Peggy.

  "I'm going to do it!" she insisted. "I can hobble to the door if you help me."

  "I'll carry you," said the outlaw. "Wrap her up and I'll get her a seat."

  And so, while Mrs. Adams wrapped her patient in a blanket, the outlaw dragged one of the rough, ax-hewn benches to the door and covered it with blankets. He put a stone to heat and then re-entered just as Alice, supported by Peggy, was setting foot to the floor. Swiftly, unhesitating, and very tenderly he put his arms about her and lifted her to the bench in the doorway before the fire.

  It was so sweet to feel that wondrous body in his arms. His daring to do it surprised her, but her own silent acquiescence, and the shiver of pleasure which came with the embarrassment of it, confused and troubled her.

  "That's better," he said as he dropped to the ground and drew the blankets close about her feet. "I'll have a hot stone for you in a minute."

  He went about these ministrations with an inward ecstasy which shone in his eyes and trembled in his voice. But as she furtively studied his face and observed the tremor of his hands in tender ministration she lost all fear of him.

  After three days in her dark corner of the hut the sunshine was wondrously inspiring to the girl, although the landscape on which she gazed was white and wild as December. It was incredible that only a few hours lay between the flower-strewn valley of her accident and this silent and desolate, yet beautiful, wilderness of snow. And so, as she looked into the eyes of the outlaw, it seemed as though she had known him from spring to winter, and her wish to help him grew with every hour of their acquaintanceship.

  She planned his defense before Ward and Adams. "When they know how kind and helpful he has been they can but condone his one rash deed," she argued in conclusion.

  He was sitting at her feet, careless of time, the law, content with her nearness, and mindful only of her comfort, when a distant rifle-shot brought him to his feet with the swiftness of the startled stag.

  "That's your expedition," he said, "or some one who needs help."

  Again the shots rang out, one, two, three—one, two, three. "It's a signal! It's your party!"

  Peggy uttered a cry of joy and rushed outside, but Alice turned an unquiet gaze on the outlaw. "You'd better fly!"

  "What is the use?" he answered, bitterly. "The snow is so deep there is no show to cross the range, and my horse is weak and hungry."

  Gage appeared at the door. "Lemme take your gun, stranger; I want to answer the signal."

  "Where's your own?"

  "I left it on my horse," the old man answered, sheepishly.

  The young fellow looked at Alice with a keen glitter in his eyes. "I'll make answer myself," he said; "I'm very particular about my barkers."

  Alice, as she heard his revolver's answering word leap into the silent air and bound and rebound along the cliffs, was filled with a sudden fear that the sheriff might be guided back by the sound—and this indeed the fugitive himself remarked as he came back to his seat beside her.

  "If he's anywhere on this side of the divide he'll sure come back. But I've done my best. The Lord God Almighty has dropped the snow down here and shut me in with you, and I'm not complaining."

  There was no answer to be made to this fatalism of utterance, and none to the worship of his eyes.

  "Lift me up!" commanded Alice; "I want to look out and see if I can see anybody."

  The outlaw took her in his arms, supporting her in the threshold in order that she might see over the vast sea of white. But no human being was to be seen.

  "Take me back—inside," Alice said to the man who had her in his arms. "I feel cold here."

  Once again, and with a feeling that it was, perhaps, for the last time, he carried her back to her bench and re-enveloped her in her blankets.

  "Stay here with me now," she whispered to him, as she looked up into his face.

  And the outlaw, filled with gladness and pride, threw himself on the floor beside her.

  VII

  The signal pistol-shots came nearer and nearer, but very slowly; and as the outlaw sat beside Alice's couch he took her Bible from his pocket and said:

  "I made a stab at reading this last night."

  She smiled. "I saw you. How did you like it?"

  "I didn't exactly get aboard someway."

  "What was the trouble?"

  "I guess it was because I kept thinking of you—and my own place in the game. Three days ago I didn't care what became of me, but now I want a chance. I don't see any chance coming my way, but if I had it I'd make use of it." He looked at her a moment in silence, then with sudden intensity broke forth. "Do you know what you mean to me? When I look at your face and eyes I'm crazy hungry for you."

  She shrank from him and called to Mrs. Adams.

  He went on. "Oh, you needn't be afraid. I just wanted to say it, that's all. If there was only some other way to straighten myself—but I can't go to jail. I can't stand up to be clipped like a poodle-dog, then put on striped clothing and walk lock-step—I can't do it! They'll put me in for ten years. I'd be old when I got out." He shuddered. "No, I won't do that! I'd rather die here in the hills."

  She grew white in sympathy. "It is a frightful price to pay for one insane act, and yet—crime should be punished."

  "I'm getting my punishment now," he replied, with darkly brooding glance. "There's a good old man and two women, my sisters, waitin' for me down the slope. If I could reach home I'd try to live straight, but it's a long and dangerous trail between here and there."

  Peggy now ran into the cabin. "It's the expedition," she announced. "I can see Freeman."

  "I reckon this is where I get off," said the outlaw in a tone of mingled relief and dismay.

  "No, no!" Alice entreated. "Stay till Freeman comes. He will help you. Let me explain to him. I know he will not betray you."

  He looked at her again with that intent, longing worship in his eyes, and answered, "I accept the chance for the sake of one more hour with you."

  The outlaw stepped to the door, and he saw a man at the head of his train mid-leg deep in snow, leading his horse, breaking the way for his followers, who were all on foot, crawling, stumbling, and twisting among the down-timber, unmindful of the old trail.

  At sight of that big and resolute leader, with flowing black beard and ruddy face, the outlaw was filled with jealous sadness. To find Ward a man of superb physical prowess, the kind that measures peaks for the fun of it, was disturbing, and without defining his feeling he was plunged into melancholy musing. And when later Ward entered, and, stooping over the couch, kissed Alice, the end of his idyl seemed to him announced.

  In the bustle of the moment, in the interchange of anxious, hurried inquiries, the outlaw stood aside in the corner, unnoticed, till Alice caught Ward's arm and said:

  "Freeman, this is Mr. Smith, to whom we owe a great deal. He has taken the utmost care of us. We would have frozen but for him."

  Ward shook hands with the outlaw, but wonderingly asked of Alice, "But where was Gage?"

  The outlaw
answered, "Gage got lost and only turned up a couple of hours ago."

  Ward turned to Alice in horror. "Good Lord! And you were here alone—crippled—in this storm?"

  "No—that's what I'm telling you. Mr. Smith came and took care of us. He brought our wood, he cooked for us, he kept our fire going. He gave up his bed, even his blankets, for us. You should be very generous to him."

  Ward again reached a hearty hand. "I'm tremendously obliged to you."

  The outlaw quailed under all this praise. "There was mighty little to do," he answered. "I only shared my fire with them."

  Ward studied him closer. "Haven't we met before?"

  "No, I reckon not."

  "I'm quite sure I've seen you somewhere. What are you doing up in here?"

  Alice interposed. "What are we going to do?"

  Ward turned to the outlaw. "What would you advise? I've only had one idea, and that was to reach this cabin. Now what would you do?"

  The outlaw was ready. "I would send a part of the men with the horses down the valley to grass and I'd wait here till Miss Mansfield is able to ride."

  "Will this snow go off?"

  "That's my notion."

  "It's certain we can't camp here—the horses must have grass."

  "I'll be able to ride in a day or two," Alice said, bravely.

  "We could frame up a portable bed and carry you," suggested the outlaw; "but it can't be done to-night, so you'd better send your outfit down to the marsh to camp. The horses are worn out and so are the men."

  "Will you guide them to grass and help them find shelter?"

  The outlaw hesitated for an instant, and Alice interposed: "No, no! let Gage do that. I want Mr. Smith to remain here."

  Ward perceived in her entreaty something of anxiety and fear, and after the men and horses had started down the slope he turned to the outlaw and said: "I'm mighty grateful to you, Mr. Smith. It must have surprised you to find these women here."

  The outlaw dryly replied, "It did!"

  Alice added: "It was in the middle of the night, too; but Mr. Smith was very nice about it. He slept outdoors without a word of complaint."

  Ward had figured the situation to conclusion: "Smith is a poacher," and though he had a savage dislike of these illicit game-slaughterers, he could not but be glad of the presence of this particular outlaw, and resolved to overlook his trade in gratitude for his cabin and service.

  The outlaw helped Adams and Ward to clear away the snow for a tent, and Alice, seeing the three men thus amicably joined in her defense, could not find it in her heart to condemn one of them as a criminal. Here in the white isolation of the peaks the question of crime and its punishment became personal. To have this man's fate in her hand was like grasping the executioner's sword for herself.

  "If women had to punish criminals themselves, with their own hand," she asked, "how many of them would do it?"

  Peggy came in and whispered to her: "No one else seems to have recognized him. He may get away safely. I hope he will. Shall we tell the men who he is?"

  "Yes, we shall have to do that soon, but I'm afraid they won't take the sentimental view of him that we do. I tremble to think of what they will do when they know."

  Ward explained to Adams: "Our friend Smith here is a poacher—but as our account stands I don't feel it my duty to report him, do you?"

  "No; Peggy tells me he has acted like a gentleman all through."

  In this spirit they made themselves comfortable for the night.

  The sun set gloriously, but the air bit ever sharper, and while Peggy went about her cooking, assisted by her husband and the outlaw, Alice pulled Ward down to her bedside and hurriedly began:

  "You remember that placard we read in the station—the one about the train-robber?"

  "Yes!"

  "Well, this is the man—our Mr. Smith."

  Ward looked at her a moment with reflective eyes, then exclaimed: "You're right! I thought I'd seen him somewhere."

  "And the sheriff is after him. He was here yesterday morning."

  "Here?"

  "Yes. You see, Mr. Smith stayed with us till he thought the storm was over, then rode away, intending to cross the divide, but when the snow began again he turned back. He said he couldn't leave us alone. He left us just before dawn, and four or five hours afterward the sheriff came. Of course he saw the poor fellow's trail and instantly set off after him."

  "But why didn't they meet?"

  "Because Mr. Smith came back a different way and then the blizzard came on and covered up his tracks. He thinks the sheriff has gone on over the divide. You must help him, Freeman. Help him to get away and find some way to give him a start. Nobody could have been more considerate, and I can't see him taken by these cold-blooded men who want that two thousand dollars' reward. He really could have escaped, only for us. He came back to protect us."

  Ward pondered. "The problem is not so easy of solution. A train robbery is a pretty serious matter. I'm very grateful to him, but to connive at his escape is itself a punishable act. Why did you tell me? I could have passed it over—"

  "Because I'm afraid the sheriff may come back at any moment."

  Ward's brow was troubled. "I could ignore his deed and pretend not to know who he is, but definitely to assist a bandit to escape is a very serious matter."

  "I know it is; but remember he gave up his chance to cross the divide in order to keep us from suffering."

  "I wish you hadn't told me," he repeated, almost in irritation. "If the sheriff only keeps on over the range Smith can take care of himself."

  As the outlaw re-entered the cabin Alice acknowledged in him something worth a woman to love. In the older man was power, security, moral, mental, and physical health, the qualities her reason demanded in a husband; but in the other was grace and charm, something wildly admirable. He allured as the warrior, intrepid and graceful, allured the maiden, as the forest calls the householder. Something primordial and splendid and very sweet was in her feeling toward him. There could be no peaceful wedlock there, no security of home, no comfort, only the exquisite thrill of perilous union, the madness of a few short weeks—perhaps only a few swift days of self-surrender, and then, surely, disaster and despair. To yield to him was impossible, and yet the thought of it was tantalizingly sweet.

  When she looked toward Ward she perceived herself sitting serenely in matronly grace behind a shining coffee-urn in a well-ordered, highly civilized breakfast-room, facing a most considerate husband who nevertheless was able to read the morning paper in her presence. When she thought of life with the outlaw all was dark, stormy, confused, and yet the way was lit by his adoring eyes. A magical splendor lay in the impulse. His love, sudden as it seemed, was real—she was certain of that. She felt the burning power, the conjury of its flame, and it made her future with Ward, at the moment, seem dull and drab.

  "Why, why could not such a man and such a passion come with the orderly and the ethical?" she asked herself.

  At the best he was fitted only for the mine or the ranch, and the thought of life in a lonely valley, even with his love to lighten it, made her shudder. On one side she was a very practical and far-seeing woman. The instant she brought her reason to bear on the problem she perceived that any further acquaintance with this man was dangerous. They must part here at this moment, and yet she could not let him go without in some way making him feel her wish to help him.

  VIII

  Ward and the outlaw were discussing plans for getting out of the basin when Adams came in to say, "A couple of other weary wanderers are turning up."

  "The sheriff!" instantly exclaimed Alice, her face whitening in swift dismay.

  In that moment the forester was transformed. With a weapon in his hand he stood aside, his eyes on the door, a scowl of battle on his face. He resembled a wolf with bared fangs ready to die desperately.

  Ward, quick to read his purpose, interposed. "Wait!" he commanded. "Stay here; I'll see them. Don't be rash."

  As
he passed out into the firelight the outlaw, without relaxing his vigilance, said in a low voice, "Well, girl, I reckon here's where I say good night."

  "Don't resist," she pleaded. "Don't fight, please! Please! What is the use? Oh, it's too horrible! If you resist they will kill you!"

  There was no fear in his voice as he replied: "They may not; I'm handy with my gun."

  She was breathless, chilled by the shadow of the impending tragedy. "But that would be worse. To kill them would only stain your soul the deeper. You must not fight!"

  "It's self-defense."

  "But they are officers of the law."

  "No matter; I will not be taken alive."

  She moaned in her distress, helplessly wringing her hands. "O God! Why should I be witness of this?"

  "You won't be. If this is the sheriff I am going to open that door and make a dash. What happens will happen outside. You need not see it. I'm sorry you have to hear it. But I give you my word—if you must hear something I will see to it that you hear as little as possible."

  The latch clicked—he stepped back, and again stood waiting, silent, rigid, ready to act, murderous in design.

  Mrs. Adams entered quickly, and, closing the door behind her, hurriedly whispered: "It's the sheriff. Hide! The men will hold them as long as they can. Hide!"

  The outlaw looked about and smiled. "Where?" he asked, almost humorously. "I'm not a squirrel."

  "Under the bunk. See, there is room."

  He shook his head. "No, I refuse to crawl. I won't sneak. I never have. I take 'em as they come."

  "For my sake," pleaded Alice. "I can't bear to see you killed. Hide yourself. Go to the door," she said to Peggy. "Don't let them in. Tell Freeman—" She rose and stood unsteadily, forgetful of her own pain.

  Mrs. Adams urged her to lie down, but she would not. The moments passed in suspense almost too great to be endured.

  "Listen!" commanded the outlaw. "They're coming in."