Justin Wingate, Ranchman

“Hello, Justin!” he cried, advancing and extending his hand, as Justin swung a bag of meal to the ground. “We’re in for a good ground-soaker, I guess. The lightning is beginning to play fine. It’s great over there on the mountain. When she gets to going good I’ll try to nail one of the flashes down on a negative. I’ve tried a dozen times and failed; now I’m going to try again.”

Having shaken hands, Fogg ran heavily toward the wine-colored wagon; the rain was beginning to roar, and the interior of the wagon, as he knew, was as tight as a house. Then the shining wagon whirled away, with the rain drops glistening on it, revealed by the lightning, which was already waving fiery swords in the sky.

Justin followed on his cow-pony as quickly as he could, garbed like Fogg in a yellow oil slicker, and galloped along the wire fence that ran here toward the town. It was not a pleasant ride. The gusty rain beat in his face and the wind blew a tempest. The lightning, increasing in frequency, showed the fence intact, as far as the lower end of the deep chasm called the Black Cañon, which cut through the mesa above Jasper’s. There was no need to go farther than this, for he had inspected that portion of the fence earlier in the day.

The storm was in full swing before he reached Jasper’s lateral. He followed it until he came to the tiny bridge that spanned it, and there found the photograph wagon. Sheltered within the wagon, Fogg had trained his camera toward the mountain. There the play of the lightning had become something stupendous. Davison was trying to hold the bronchos and keep them quiet in the beating rain.

“I’ve taken several exposures already,” Fogg announced, when Justin made his appearance and his report. “If those horses can be kept still another minute I’ll try it there just over the dam.”

A blinding flash burned across the sky. It was so vivid that Justin closed his eyes against it. The burst of the thunder, like the explosion of a cannon, was thrown back by the stony walls of the mountain, and rolled away, booming and bellowing in the clouds. The thunder roll was followed shortly by a confused and jarring crash.

“I got that flash all right, I think,” said Fogg, “and there goes the side of the mountain!”

Landslides occurred occasionally on the sides of the mountain, and Fogg thought this was one.

“No,” Davison shouted, “it’s—the dam!”

Another crash was heard, accompanied by a popping of breaking timbers; then, with a roar like a cyclone, the dam went out, sweeping down the swollen stream in a great tangle of logs and splintered timbers. Justin galloped toward the stream.

“Better look out there, Justin,” Fogg bellowed at him. “That will bring the river out on the jump, and you don’t want to get caught by it!”

Justin heard the wagon being driven away from the little bridge. It was an exciting minute, yet he had time to think with regret of what the loss of the dam would mean to the farmers. His reflections were cut short by a scream, followed by a cry for help.

Then in the lightning’s white glare he saw on the ground before him a woman clinging to the prostrate form of a man. Justin galloped wildly, and reaching them leaped down. To his amazement the woman was Lucy Davison and the man was Ben. She had apparently dragged him beyond the reach of the water that splashed and rolled in a wild flood but a few yards away.

“Help me,” she said, without explanation. “He—he is hurt, I think.”

Justin had his arms round Ben instantly, and began to lift him. The rain was falling in sheets, and both Lucy and Ben were drenched. Ben began to help himself, and climbed unsteadily to his feet, with Justin’s assistance. Only in the intervals between the vivid lightning flashes could Justin see either Ben or Lucy.

“I’m—I’m all right!” said Ben, staggering heavily.

“I’m afraid he was hit by one of the timbers of the dam,” Lucy declared.

To Justin she seemed abnormally brave. She took hold of Ben’s arm and assisted in supporting him.

“We must get him to the house—to Jasper’s,” she urged, tremulously.

“The photograph wagon is right over there,” Justin informed her. “We’ll take him to that. If you’ll lead my horse maybe I can carry him.”

“I don’t need to be carried,” said Ben, stubbornly. “I tell you I’m all right. I slipped and fell—that’s all. Take your hands off of me; I can walk.”

Lucy clung to him, and Justin did not release his hold. He hallooed now to Davison and Fogg. They did not hear him in the roar of the storm, but by the glare of the lightning they saw the little group swaying near the margin of the wild stream and drove back to discover the meaning of the strange sight. They shouted questions of surprise, as they came up. Justin had not attempted to voice his bewilderment.

Lucy became the spokesman of the group.

“Uncle Philip, we will explain later,” she said, with emphasis. “The first thing is to get Ben home.”

“Yes, that’s so!” Davison admitted, his anxiety for Ben betrayed in his shaking voice.

Ben was helped into the photograph wagon; where he would not lie down, but insisted on sitting in the driver’s seat. Justin assisted Lucy into the wagon. It was a large wagon, in which Fogg had lived and slept in the old days when he went about taking photographs and selling curios. Justin wished he might climb in there by Lucy’s side, and do something, or say something, that would allay her evident distress. Her voice was unnaturally hard, and her manner singularly abrupt and emphatic. He knew that she was suffering.

And he had not known she was in Paradise Valley! That was the most inexplicable of all—that she should be there and no one on the ranch aware of the fact.

“She must have arrived on the evening train,” was his conclusion.

However, that explained little. How did she and Ben chance to be there by the river? Had they been walking home from the town together—through the storm? Where was Ben’s pony? That might have escaped from him, or he might have left it somewhere; but the other question was not to be answered readily. The whole subject was so cloaked in the mysterious that it seemed to defy analysis.

The storm still raged, with sheets of beating rain, with lightning fire and roll of thunder, as the wagon moved swiftly in the direction of the ranch house along the soaked and gullied trail. And behind it, galloping on his cow-pony, rode Justin, pondering the meaning and the mystery of the things he had seen and heard.

Yet through it all there was a certain sense of joy and gratification. He had been able to serve the woman he loved, and she was here at home. The first long, long separation was ended—she was home again.

CHAPTER XV

A FLASH OF LIGHTNING

As the photograph wagon was halted at the gate which led to the ranch house grounds Lucy Davison spoke to Justin, from the rear of the wagon. Her tones were solicitous, and anxious:

“Justin,” she said, “it’s too bad to have to ask you to do it in this storm, but I wish you would go back to Mr. Jasper’s and get Ben’s pony, which he left there in the stable. I have a horse there, too, which I rode out from town. Get both of them, and put them in the stable here. You won’t mind the extra trip? I ought to have spoken to you of it before.”

Justin was about to assure her that he would go willingly; when she continued, in lower tones:

“And Justin! Don’t say anything about getting the horses from there, please. I will tell you why later. And I will explain everything to Uncle Philip.”

She had lifted the closed flap that protected the rear end of the wagon, and in the flame of the lightning which still burned across the skies he saw her pale and anxious face. She had always been beautiful in his eyes, but never more so than at that moment, while making this distressed appeal, even though her clothing exuded moisture and her hair was plastered to her head by the rain. Her pleading look haunted him for hours afterward.

“I’ll go,” he said promptly, “and I will have the horses here in a little while.”

“Thank you, Justin,” she said, in a way she had never spoken to him before. “And say nothing to anybody! I think you will not find Mr. Jasper at home; but you know where the stable is, and how to get into it.”

The wagon rolled on into the ranch house grounds, where Ben was helped out and into the house; and Justin galloped back along the trail to Sloan Jasper’s, having been given another surprise and further food for thought.

When he returned with Ben’s pony and the horse Lucy had hired in the town, and had put them in the stable with his own dripping animal, he entered the ranch house. Pearl opened the door for him; and as he removed his wet slicker he heard Philip Davison explaining to Steve Harkness that the farmers’ dam had been torn out by the storm. Then Fogg came toward him, and in the light at the farther end of the long hall he saw Lucy, who had changed her clothing and descended from her room. Ben Davison was not to be seen.

“I reckon you’re as wet as they make ’em,” said Fogg, “but, just the same, if you’ll step in here we’ll see what I’ve got on this plate.”

He was on his way to the dark room he had fitted up in the house for his photographic work.

Lucy came up to Justin, as Fogg walked on to this room. She looked him anxiously in the face.

“Yes, I brought the horses?” he said, interpreting the look.

“And said nothing to any one?”

“I have spoken to no one.”

She thanked him with her eyes.

“You are just soaked,” she said, “and you ought to go out to the bunk rooms and get dry clothing at once. I don’t want to have you get sick because of that.”

“A little wetting won’t hurt me, and I’m going in here before I change my clothes. Fogg wants to show me his picture, if he got one.”

He followed Fogg, and she went with him, without invitation.

“What sort of picture did he take? I heard him saying something about it.”

“He was trying to photograph a flash of lightning. I don’t know how he succeeded.”

He stopped at the doorway and might have said more, if Fogg had not requested him to come on in and close the door.

“This is the last plate I exposed, and I’m going to try it first,” said Fogg, as he made his preparations.

Fogg was an enthusiast on the subject of photography, and had long desired to catch a lightning flash with his camera.

“If I haven’t got it now I’ll never have a better chance. That flash, just before the dam broke—wasn’t it great? The whole sky flamed in a way to blind a fellow. For a second or so I couldn’t see a thing. I had the camera focussed and pointed just right to get that in great shape, it seems to me. Now we’ll see the result.”

He placed the plate in the tray and turned the developer on it. Justin and Lucy were standing together, with heads almost touching, watching with interest to see the picture appear.

“I’ve got something, anyhow,” said Fogg, when he saw the streak which the lightning had printed stand out, as it were, on the plate. “I think I’ve got a picture of the dam, too. The camera was trained on the mountain, right across the top of the dam; I thought if I got the lightning I might have a great combination, with the dam and other things showing.”

“You’ve got the lightning flash all right,” said Justin, bending forward.

“Yes, that’s coming out great; see the image develop!”

He stopped, with a whistle of astonishment.

“Hello!” he exclaimed. “What’s this?”

A remarkable picture was coming—had come—into view. Fogg stared, with rounded eyes; Lucy uttered a little cry of dismay and fright; Justin caught his breath with a gasp of astonishment.

Small wonder. On the end of the dam nearest the trail two human figures were shown—a man standing on the dam with axe descending and a woman rushing toward him over the slippery logs. The figures were not large, but they were portrayed clearly. They were the figures of Ben and Lucy Davison, caught there by the camera, in the mad turmoil of the lashing storm.

For a moment not a word was spoken, while the figures seemed to swim more clearly into view. Lucy broke the dead silence.

“May I see that plate, Mr. Fogg?”

Her voice was repressed and hard, as if she struggled with some violent emotion.

“I—don’t—why, yes, of course, look at it all you want to. But I don’t—”

The sentence was broken by a crash of falling glass. Lucy had either dashed the plate to the floor, or had let it fall in her agitation.

Justin almost leaped when he heard that sound. Lucy looked at him, and for a moment he thought she was going to cry out. But again she spoke, turning to Fogg.

“Well, I’m glad it’s broken!” she declared, nervously. “You saw what you saw, Mr. Fogg; but there is no reason why you should remember it. I hope you won’t. Perhaps one of the other plates will show a lightning flash. You couldn’t have used this, anyway.”

“Well, may I be—” Fogg caught himself. “Lucy, you broke that intentionally!”

She turned on him with flashing eyes.

“Mr. Fogg, I did. You saw what was in that picture. You know what it told, or you will know when you think it over. I broke it so that it could never be used or seen by anybody. I’m glad I saw it just when I did. I beg your pardon, but I had to do it.”

Was this the Lucy Justin fancied he knew so well? He was astonished beyond measure.

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” Fogg admitted, as soon as he was able to say anything. “That dam went out, and—yes, I guess you’re right! It wouldn’t do for that picture to be seen. I’ve been wondering how you happened to be where we found you, and what you and Ben were doing there.”

“Mr. Fogg,” her tones were sharp, “don’t accuse me even in your mind; I had nothing to do with it, but tried to stop it.” She hesitated. “And—whatever you think, please don’t say anything to Uncle Philip; not now, at any rate; and don’t tell him about the picture.”

She turned to the door.

“Justin,” she said, and her tones altered, “I’ll see you to-morrow; or this evening, if you like.”

“This evening,” he begged; and following her from the room, he hurried out to the bunk house to shift into dry clothing.

When he saw her again, in the little parlor, she was pale, and he thought she had been crying, but her agitation and her strange manner were both gone. He came to the window where she stood, and with her looked out into the stormy night. The white glare of the lightning illuminated the whole valley at times. About the top of the mountain it burned continually. The cottonwoods and willows were writhing by the stream. On the roof and the sides of the house the dashing rain pounded furiously.

“Justin,” she said, as he stood beside her, “I must explain that to you. You know what that picture meant?”

He wanted to fold her in his arms and comfort her, when he heard her voice break, but he checked the desire.

“I could guess,” he said.

“I came down from Denver on the late train, having missed the earlier one.”

“I was in town when the earlier one came in,” he informed her, regretting for the moment that his too speedy return had kept him from meeting her there. “If I had known you were coming!”

She looked at him fondly, as in the old days. How beautiful she was, though now very pale! He felt that he had not been mistaken in thinking her the most beautiful girl in the world. The East had certainly been kind to her.

“It was to be a surprise for you—you great boy, and for Uncle Philip. I had no idea how it would turn out. In the town I got a horse. The storm was threatening, but I thought I could get home. Just before I reached Jasper’s I overtook Ben on his pony. I’m telling you this, Justin, because I know you will never mention it!”

“I will never speak of it,” he promised.

“I knew you wouldn’t. Now, you must never mention this, either—but Ben had been drinking.”

Justin understood now the meaning of Ben’s white face and glittering eyes.

“I never knew him to drink before,” she went on, “and I shouldn’t have known it this evening but for the way he talked. Politics, and that man Arkwright, caused it, I’m sure. He was raging, Justin—that is the word, raging—against you and the farmers, and particularly against Mr. Jasper and Mr. Sanders. He claimed they had tried to get you to run against him for the legislature. He talked like a crazy man, and made such wild threats that he frightened me.”

Justin wanted to express his mind somewhat emphatically. It seemed best to say nothing; yet that picture of Ben Davison raging against him and frightening Lucy gave him a suffocating sense of wrath.

“The storm struck us just before we reached Mr. Jasper’s house, and we turned in there for shelter. Jasper wasn’t at home, but the door wasn’t locked and we went in.”

“Jasper was in town,” said Justin.

“Ben put the horses in the stable,” she went on, without noticing the interruption. “When he had done that, and had come into the house out of the rain, he began to rave again. After awhile he said he would go out and see how the horses were doing and give them some hay; but I saw him pick up an axe in the yard and start toward the dam. Though the storm was so bad, I followed him, for he had been swearing vengeance against the farmers, and from some things he had said I guessed what he meant to do. When I reached him he was on the dam, chopping at one of the key logs, and had cut it almost in two.”

She trembled, as that memory swept over her.

“I rushed out upon the dam, when I saw what he was doing, and begged him to stop. He tried to push me away, and I came near falling into the water; but I clung to him, and then the axe slipped out of his hands and fell into the stream. The logs began to crack; and that, with the loss of the axe, made him willing to go back with me. We ran, and had just reached the shore when the dam gave way. The ground was slippery, and he fell as we ran toward the house through the storm; and when he lay there like a log, and I couldn’t get him up, my nerves gave way, and I screamed. Then you heard me. That is all; except the photograph.”

The calm she had maintained with difficulty forsook her as she finished, her voice broke, and her tears fell like rain.

Justin slipped his arm about her.

“You were brave, Lucy!” was all he could find to say.

He had never realized how brave she could be.

“And, Justin, nothing must ever be said about it! It would ruin Ben; it might even put him in prison. I needn’t have told you; but I wanted to, and I know you won’t say anything about it.”

Justin did not stop to think whether this were right or wrong. He gave the promise instantly.

They began to talk of other things. She seemed not to want to say anything more on the disagreeable subject; and Justin was glad to have her talk of herself, of her school life, and her Eastern experiences. Somehow the old sense of intimacy had in a measure departed. He withdrew his hand from about her waist, that was still slender and girlish. She had been removed to a great distance from him, it seemed. Yet, outwardly, she had not changed, except for the better. She was more womanly, more gracious, now that her tears had been shed and her thoughts had turned into other channels, even than in the old days. Nevertheless, Justin could not at once summon courage to say to her the old sweet nothings in which both had delighted.

“You are still my sweetheart?” he ventured timidly, by and by. “The East hasn’t changed you any in that respect, I hope?”

She looked at him earnestly, and her eyes grew luminous.

“No, Justin, not in the least; but there is one thing, which has come to me while I was away. We aren’t children any longer.”

“I am well aware of that fact,” he said; “I have been painfully aware of it, all evening.”

She knew what he meant.

“We aren’t children any longer; you are a man now, and I am a woman. I heard a sermon the other Sunday, from those verses in which Paul said he had put away childish things and no longer acted or thought as a child. Long ago I told you that I loved you, and promised to marry you some time; I haven’t forgot that.”

“I shall never forget it!”

“But now that we’re no longer children, I think it is your duty to speak to Uncle Philip.”

The thought of facing Philip Davison on such a mission flushed Justin’s face. Yet he did not hesitate.

“I will do so,” he promised; “I ought to have been courageous enough to do it long ago, and without you telling me to.”

Instantly he felt taller, stronger, more manly. He knew he was deliriously happy. To feel the soft pressure of her body against his, the electric touch of her hand, and to hear her say that she loved him, and would some time marry him, thrilled him. He looked down into her face, with the love light strong in his eyes. He recalled how he had loved her during her long absence.

“You didn’t see any one while you were gone that you thought you could love better?”

He believed he knew what the answer would be, but he awaited it breathlessly.

“I oughtn’t to say so, Justin, until after you have spoken to Uncle Philip; but I saw no one I could love half as much as you—no one.”

“Yet you saw many men?”

She laughed lightly; it was like sunshine after rain.

“Not so very many as you might think. Mrs. Lassell’s Finishing School for Young Ladies is a very exclusive and select place, you must remember. She holds a very tight rein over the girls placed in her charge.”

“Is it so bad as that? It’s a good thing for me, I guess, that she is so careful; you might get to see someone you could like better than me.”

She laughed again, seeing the anxiety he strove to cover.

“If you’ve been accumulating wrinkles and gray hairs on account of that you’ve been very foolish.”

“Your last letter didn’t seem quite as genial as some others!”

“I didn’t underscore the important words, or write them in red ink?”

She became suddenly grave. The events of the evening haunted her like a bad dream.

He stooped low above her bended head.

“I love you,” he whispered; “and I’m going to ask you again if you love me, just to hear you say it!”

She looked up at him, tremulously.

“Justin, I love you, and I love you! There, don’t ask me again, until after you have spoken to Uncle Philip.”

His blue eyes were shining into the depths of her brown ones; and with a quick motion he stooped and kissed her.

“No one was looking, and no one could see us in here,” he said, as she gave a start and her pale face flushed rosy red.

“I will speak to Mr. Davison to-morrow,” he promised, as if to make amends.

CHAPTER XVI

BEN DAVISON’S TRIUMPH

Justin made that call on Philip Davison in much trepidation, and broached the subject with stammering hesitation and flushed face. Davison was non-committal, until he had heard him through. Yet, looking earnestly at this youth, he saw how prepossessing Justin was in appearance, how clear-cut, frank and intelligent was his face, with its expressive blue eyes, how shapely the head under its heavy, dark-brown hair. Justin’s costume was that of a cowboy, but it became him. There was a not unkindly light in Davison’s florid face and he stroked his beard thoughtfully, as Justin made his plea. But his words were not precisely what Justin hoped to hear.

“I don’t blame you for thinking well of Lucy,” he said; “she is a rare girl; and the man who takes her for his wife with my consent must show some qualities that will make me think he is worthy of her. I’ve thought well of you, Justin, and I think well of you now. That you’re a cowboy isn’t anything that I would hold against you; a cowboy can become a cattle king, if he’s got the right kind of stuff in him. Everything depends on that.”

“I intend to do something, to become something, make something of myself,” Justin urged, his face very hot and uncomfortable. “I haven’t had time to do much yet, and my opportunities haven’t been very good. I’ve succeeded in getting a pretty fair education.”

“But would you have done even that, if Clayton hadn’t driven you on to it? You’ve got brains, and he coaxed you to study, and of course you learned. But in other things you’re not doing nearly so well as Ben, for instance. Ben will go into the state legislature this fall, and he’s not so very much older than you.”

The flush deepened on Justin’s face.

“I shall try to make the most of myself,” he declared, somewhat stiffly. That reference to Ben was not pleasing.