The Heart of Thunder Mountain

Presently Jim entered.

“Well, Jim!” said Haig. “Here we are again, eh? I’m hungry.”

“You eat, she come back,” Jim answered shrewdly.

Haig looked at him sharply, but the Chinaman’s face was like a paper mask.

“Shut up!” he cried savagely.

CHAPTER XVI

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

Hillyer was waiting for her at the barn when she came at last, with a smile that eased his anxiety, if only in an inconsiderable degree. But he saw, as he took her handbag and bundle, and placed them in the automobile, that she had been crying. This gladdened while it angered him, and he was lost among the many interpretations that might be put upon those signs of distress. Had she come to the end of her infatuation? Had she been subjected to insults as the reward of her service? He dared not ask her such questions–not yet; but he was resolved (and there were material reasons, too, for that decision) to have his own case settled, one way or another, at once.

Neither of them spoke more than a conventional word or two until Hillyer, after full speed down Haig’s road to the junction, slowed up on the main highway along the Brightwater. It was the serenest of summer evenings, very still and fragrant, with a touch of autumn in the air. The eastern sky was filled with pale golds and pinks, and the foothills were warm with purples. Marion’s face was averted from Hillyer, and her eyes were fixed, not on the soft alternations of color in the sky, but on Thunder Mountain, where the only clouds to be seen in all the expanse of blue lay low upon its uncompromising head.

“Marion!” said Hillyer, at length.

She did not miss the note in his voice that exposed his intention, but long preparation for this moment enabled her to face him calmly.

“Yes, I know, Robert,” she said. “You have much to say to me.”

“I’m going to-morrow,” he began abruptly. “Will you go with me?”

“To-morrow? Go with you?” she repeated, with a little start of surprise.

“Yes. Will you go with me?”

“But I don’t understand, Robert.”

“I must be in Denver the day after to-morrow.”

“I–I didn’t know your time was so short. I’m afraid–I’ve spoiled your visit.”

“That doesn’t matter, Marion, if you’ll go back with me.”

“But I can’t–just yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not ready. I haven’t half finished my visit with Claire.”

She was, after all, somewhat confused, for she had not expected him to approach the subject in just this way.

“But the summer is almost gone. It’s near the end of August,” persisted Hillyer.

“There’s another month of good weather. And September, Claire says, is the most beautiful of all.”

“That may be, unless Huntington’s right. He told me only yesterday that it’s going to be an early winter. There’s come a chill in the air even since I’ve been here.”

“Nonsense!” she replied, recovering her composure. “I’ll go out with the last stage.”

“And get caught in an avalanche or something!”

“I suppose Seth does want to get rid of me!” she said, with a faint laugh.

“That’s not it at all.”

“Well, I’m not afraid.”

“But suppose you stay too late, and get caught. You’d have to remain here all winter. The Park, Huntington says, is as tight as a jail after the snows come.”

“Claire stays here through the winter sometimes.”

He felt a fresh alarm, and showed it. It would be just like her! he thought.

“See here, Marion!” he said, plunging at last. “I’ve obeyed your order not to say anything about–the future. I meant not to say anything until the time was up. But you must see I can’t keep silent now, after–what’s happened. You must know I can’t go away and leave you without knowing what–it all means. You said you’d tell me as soon as you’d finished nursing–him. No, wait, please! Let me say it at once. You know I love you. I want you to marry me. I need you, Marion. There’s never been an hour, a minute that I haven’t thought of you. I can’t work–I can’t do anything without you. I love you more than–”

“Stop, Robert!” she cried. “You’re making it harder for both of us.”

“Harder–for–both of us?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

There was a moment’s silence. Hillyer, while he spoke, had half-consciously stopped the automobile, which stood now, humming softly, in the middle of the road that stretched white and empty ahead of them and behind them. The night breeze had risen, blowing cold from the snows, and the shadows were creeping down into the valley, as if they came from dark caverns in the hills.

“Robert,” she said sadly. “It’s no use. I must tell you. I–I can’t marry you.”

“Why?”

“You make me say it!” she cried. “Well, Robert, I–I don’t love you.”

“I’m not asking you to love me!” he rejoined, almost savagely. “I only ask you–”

“Listen!” she interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. “That’s not all.”

“You mean–”

She stopped him with a pressure on his arm.

“Once, not knowing, I almost consented,” she went on. “But something checked me–held me back. You remember how restless I was–how troubled. You would have laughed at me if I had told you. But something seemed to be calling me–a voice from a long distance. I laughed at myself for a foolish girl–at first. I said it was nerves, and I fought against it. And it was then that I came nearest to saying yes to you, thinking that I was indeed foolish in holding back. I liked you. I’ve always liked you, Robert. You’d been such a splendid friend, and I was grateful. I wanted to repay you–”

She stopped suddenly, and a flush mounted swiftly into her pale cheeks. Repay! The word recalled sharply to her, acutely and painfully, all that Haig had said about paying her. Were they, then, in the same dreadful situation, she and Haig, with debts they could never pay? For the first time some sense of the terrible finality of his decision struck in upon her secret hopes.

“Don’t talk of that!” Robert was saying, seizing the moment of silence. “I never–”

“But always, when I was about to yield–I couldn’t. I didn’t know why then. But now I do.”

“You mean–Haig?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes.”

“You don’t–” He could not bring himself to speak the word.

“Yes, Robert. I love him.”

It took all the courage she possessed. But she owed it to him and to herself.

“I don’t believe it!” he blurted out. “I won’t believe it! You are not yourself, Marion. You are worn out. You have been fascinated. He’s strange–different–new to you. It’s your imagination, not your heart, that’s been–won. He’s led you on by–”

“No!” she broke in. “You’re quite wrong. It’s not his fault at all. He doesn’t love me.”

“Of course not. I know that kind of fellow. You didn’t need to leave New York to find plenty like him. He only wants to–”

“Robert!” she cried warningly.

“Then what–”

“He hates me, I think,” she replied sadly.

“Then why in the world do you–” He was floundering. “What do you know about him, anyhow? Who is he? Where did he come from?”

That sounded so much like Seth Huntington that she smiled, thinking of the picture that he must have drawn for Hillyer.

“I know very little about him,” she replied quietly. “But I know that Cousin Seth is mistaken.”

“But how do you know he hates you?”

“He made that clear in the beginning–not me alone, but all women. He shunned me. He told me twice that I must not speak to him again. And this afternoon, while you waited for me–” Her voice broke, with a laugh that was half a sob. “He–finished it.”

“He was rude to you!” he cried. “I’ll make him–”

She put her hand quickly on his arm.

“No. He was very gentle–and kind.”

“What did he say?” Hillyer demanded, almost imperatively.

“He said that–he couldn’t leave the ranch just now, so I’d better go back to New York–at once.”

“He did, did he?” cried Hillyer angrily, his chivalry for the moment dominant. But then he saw suddenly another meaning, for him, in the brutal ultimatum; and his face brightened. “That settles it, doesn’t it?” he exclaimed eagerly.

“Settles what?”

“Why, you’ll go with me!”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you I’m not ready yet.”

There was a silence while Hillyer, buoyed up with new hope, made some hurried calculations.

“Then listen, Marion!” he said. “I’ll go to Denver, and come back in a week or ten days. I’ll arrange things so that I can stay here until–”

“Oh, Robert! You won’t understand.”

He stared at her blankly.

“You’re making it so hard for me!” she cried pathetically. “I’ve told you already that I cannot marry you.”

“But why! Why!” he persisted.

“Because I haven’t myself–I’ve nothing to give.”

“But how can you love him after he has–”

“Told me he does not love me?” she said, taking the words from him. “Then how can you love me when I have said the same thing to you?”

He struggled desperately, in deep water.

“It’s different, Marion. You don’t hate me–I think. You say you like me. That’s enough now–to start with. It’s all I ask. I’ll try to make you happy, and I’ll wait for love. You shall have all the things in the world you want. I’m making scads of money. Everything I touch just rolls up into bank notes. I want you to come and spend all that money for me. Remember, Marion, your father wished it. If he were here now–”

“Yes!” she put in with sudden fire. “If he were here now do you know what he would say to me?”

He felt that he had blundered, and made no reply.

“He would say to me–Oh, I can hear him now! He would say: ‘Follow your heart, daughter. Love’s the only thing in the world that really counts.’”

She smiled triumphantly, but wistfully. And Hillyer was still silent.

“Daddy wasn’t very good at quoting Scripture,” she went on musingly, “but he used to say: ‘Better a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.’”

“But there isn’t any hatred therewith!” cried Hillyer desperately. “I love you, Marion, and if you don’t love me–you don’t hate me. So there’s more than half of it, and–can’t we trust the future a little bit?”

“No.”

“But what are you going to do?” he asked, shifting his line of attack.

“I don’t know,” she replied, with a helpless gesture.

“You can’t go back to New York without money enough to take your proper place in the world. Of course, if you’ll let me, I’ll–”

“Robert!” she interrupted sharply.

“Well, I mean it just the same!” he replied stoutly. “I’ve got to take care of you, and if you won’t–See here, Marion! I simply refuse to be turned down this way. I’ll not take your stubborn, whimsy little ‘no’ for my answer. You’re on my hands, thank God! whether you like it or not. Maybe you won’t love me. Maybe you won’t marry me. We’ll see about that! But I’m going to look after you–I’m going to take care of you, just the same–and you can just stop tightening those lips–they’re not as red as they ought to be–and you can make up your mind that you can boss me so far and no farther.”

Marion smiled at him indulgently, but gratefully, and even a little proudly; for she had been very proud of him in the days when only friendship was spoken of. She did not in the least resent his speech; but neither did she answer him.

“It’s getting late, Robert,” she said, shivering a little.

“So it is,” he replied. “And you’ve no warm wrap for the night air.”

He drew the lap-robe around her, and started the automobile. Through the gathering night they drove, almost without speaking, to Huntington’s, where the best supper that Claire could contrive from the limited stores at her disposal awaited the prodigal. There was naturally some constraint at table. Huntington had made his peace with Hillyer, having apologized humbly, and expatiated on the cause of his wrath. But he did not know how he stood with Marion, who had been a long time in the camp of the enemy, and who doubtless knew too of his speech about her trunks. He had not dared to ask Hillyer whether he had related that incident to her, and he felt the need of extreme discretion until he should discover what kind of a rod she had in pickle for him, or, at any rate, until the time should be propitious to tell her that he was sorry for his conduct. Marion was tired, and disinclined to talk, while Hillyer, on his side, had his mind fully occupied, between his deal in mines and his deal in love, in both of which he had encountered unexpected difficulties. Only Claire was gay and untroubled, and she accepted eagerly the task of saving the party from awkward silences. For once in many moons she was allowed to talk unchecked, and she made the most of her opportunity.

After supper, Marion announced her purpose to go to bed at once. She was sure, she declared, that she could sleep “around the clock.”

“I’ll be off before you’re up, then,” said Hillyer.

“You must go to-morrow?” asked Claire.

“Absolutely. It means thousands.”

“Then we’ll sit on the veranda a few minutes,” said Marion. “Not long, though. I’m dreadfully sleepy.”

It was not long. They found they had little to say to each other, since the one subject of which both were thinking, each from a different point of view, was tacitly barred. And Hillyer soon saw that Marion was sorely in need of rest.

“Go to bed now, dear girl!” he said presently. “And please take good care of yourself. I want to see the color back in your cheeks when I return.”

“I will, Robert,” she answered. “I’ll be quite all right in a day or two.”

“And you–don’t really think of staying here all winter?” he ventured to ask diffidently.

“No,” she replied. “That’s hardly possible.”

“Then good-by–until you hear my horn in the road down yonder.”

“Good-by, Robert, and good luck!”

She gave him both her hands, for a moment, with a tenderness that lingered with him far on his way.

CHAPTER XVII

INTERLUDE

August ripened into September, and the Park underwent a subtle and fascinating change. In the meadows the hay lay in long windrows, golden green; on the slopes vermilion flowers succeeded blue; in the sunsets tender pinks yielded to burnt orange and vivid red. The nights had grown perceptibly colder, but the days were still warm and dry and radiant, though with a tang in the air that stirred the blood. And a thousand perfumes, known and unknown, distilled from meadow and field and forest, scented every vagrant breeze.

Marion was soon herself again, in body if not in mind. A few long nights of sleep, a few days in the saddle, and sufficient nourishment (for she had neglected herself at Haig’s, despite Jim’s solicitude) restored her physically to what she had been on the day of Haig’s accident. But she, too, had changed, and as subtly as the season.

“What’s come over Marion?” asked Huntington of Claire one day, after he had caught himself regarding her with the rapt interest of a discoverer.

Claire looked at him pityingly. She knew, but she was not going to tell him.

“Why?” she asked innocently.

“Well, I don’t exactly know,” he replied doubtfully. “She’s prettier than ever–but so are you. That isn’t it. She’s kind of–It’s no use. I don’t know.”

Claire laughed, and then became severe.

“That’s because she’s forgiven you,” she said.

“No, it isn’t!” he asseverated, not without embarrassment. “You can see for yourself that she’s different.”

“Very well!” she retorted maliciously. “Perhaps if you’d done such a noble thing as nursing Haig back to life you’d be different too.”

“I’d see him in–”

“Shame!” she cried. “You wouldn’t do anything of the kind. Your bark’s worse than your bite, sir. And besides, while I think of it, you really must stop saying ‘hell’ and ‘damn’ so much. The habit’s growing on you.”

Having no ready answer to that speech, he merely looked at her, perhaps a little guiltily, then bent down and kissed her, and hurried out of the house. He was, in truth, though he never would have had the courage to acknowledge it, even to Claire, ashamed of himself, and anxious too. His inflammable temper had rather out-flamed itself in its last-recorded performance, and he had begun to suspect that it had been responsible for some, though by no means all, of his troubles. The killing of Haig’s bull, he now realized, was a foolish and indefensible act, which could be traced easily to him because of the bull that was gored; and he must prepare to account to Haig for it. And so, knowing that he would again be in the wrong, as in the affair at the post-office, he was torn between accentuated bitterness toward Haig and growing discontent with himself. He would never be afraid of Haig, but he was becoming steadily more afraid of Marion. Whether it was that he had really developed intuition, which told him of Marion’s spiritual growth, or that he was in constant dread lest she make some new demand upon him in regard to Haig, he lived in much awe of her. She had once spoken, on a memorable occasion, of making peace between Haig and himself. It would be just like her, wouldn’t it, to try to bring them together? Well, let her try it! He would be the last man in Paradise Park. And so on, until he was once more almost satisfied with himself.

The faithful Smythe, meanwhile, brought Marion almost daily news of Philip. That he was rapidly recovering she heard with a ringing joy, which had its alloy of fear; for she knew that the day he felt himself to be in full possession of his powers he would attempt again to conquer Sunnysides. So from day to day her apprehension mounted until it became well-nigh insupportable. And her own helplessness maddened her. What could she do? Nothing! Nothing but wait, and pray God to protect him. Every night she prayed for him, and every morning, on her knees; and every hour the prayer was in her heart. She rode sometimes as far as the farther edge of the woods that crowned the ridge, and looked long at the little valley, and at the smoke rising in a thin spiral from the ranch house that she could not see. At the right of it would be the cottage, and at the left the barn, and the corral where Sunnysides bided his time. And then, having looked until she could endure no more, she would ride slowly home, to await the next coming of Smythe with news.

Once she went to the glade of the columbines. She did not feel any longer the antipathy she once felt to the spot that had, in one devastating moment, revealed to her the fatuity of her dreams. Now she was in search of the old hopes that she had once revelled in, while she gathered armloads of columbines, and imagined they were for Philip.

Dismounting eagerly at the foot of the little hill, she plunged through the brush, and halted at the margin of the glade, stricken with the keenest disappointment. The columbines were gone; only a brave, pale blossom here and there lingered pathetically in a waste of dried and drooping stems. She stood staring at them a moment; then, with a cry, she threw herself down among them, and gave herself up to grief, letting the tears come in what flood they would, while her hand clutched one poor survivor of the summer glory.

Gone, then, like the summer, were all those dreams. And very soon must come the end of all. Barely two weeks remained to her in the Park,–barely two weeks in which the miracle that she awaited could be wrought. What miracle could move him when her love had failed? And yet–Once, in her desperation, she suggested to Claire and Seth that she should remain all winter in the Park; but they rose up together against any such scheme. It was absurd, they agreed. They would be delighted to have her with them as many summers as she might wish; and they were already counting on her return to them next June. But the Park in winter was no place for a woman, unless she had been long inured to such hardships as were involved in that hibernation. Claire had remained two winters there, it was true, but Seth had vowed that she should never miss the last stage again. Marion’s proposal only clinched the matter the more firmly; and it was eventually agreed that Claire should go with Marion to New York, where they would live very quietly, taking what pleasures their means would permit, until spring should bring them back to the mountains. And so, barring a miracle, she was at the end of her hopes.

Meanwhile, she had heard from Robert. He was nearly wild, he wrote. The big deal was going slowly–not badly, but with maddening delays. He was tempted to “chuck the whole business,” though it meant thousands, perhaps half a million. Yet how could he do that? He was working for her; and if he left Denver the deal would certainly fall through. But there was yet time; any day the stubborn partner might yield; and so on. Poor Robert! thought Marion. She imagined what Philip would have done if he had wanted her as Robert did. Would any deal, any prospect of millions, have kept him away from her? So she reasoned, forgetting entirely the other side of the case. Haig, if she could have asked him, would have told her: yes, that’s all very well, but the man would have to get those thousands or other thousands afterwards, just the same; a woman wants to have her cake and eat it too; and so much the worse for the man if he cannot dance attendance on her and make money for her at the same time!

She wrote to Robert that be must not think of leaving his business. Moreover, she would soon be in Denver, on her way back home.

In the late afternoon Haig leaned against Sunnysides’ corral, smoking his pipe and gazing fixedly at the golden outlaw. The air was very still, almost too still, as if nature had paused before a sudden and violent alteration of her mood. In the bright sky, a little hard even for September, there was no cloud, except on the western horizon, where dark vapors hovered over the bald head of Thunder Mountain. The scent of the harvest in the meadows blended with the odor of burning pine that came from the ranch house, where Flick built the fire for supper. On the hill the pines were still, but the brook babbled on, and there was an incessant low twittering of birds in the cottonwoods.

Haig had now fully recovered. He had taken to his horse again some days before, to ride a little the first day, and more the next, each day adding something to his exercise, until he felt the blood running warmly in his veins, and his muscles tightening at his will. Then he had hardened himself with every kind of labor around the ranch. For he was impatient to remove the stigma of doubt that Sunnysides had burned into his soul. He had told Marion that she was incapable of understanding why he must conquer Sunnysides. He was not sure that he understood it himself. But he knew that he must. Ever since that day when he had fled into the world he had fought to be master of himself; and his way of being master of himself was to be master of every man and every animal and every obstacle that appeared across his path,–that irresponsible, uncharted path that had neither beginning nor end, that led he knew not where nor cared. Every moment was a moment to itself, and every day was its own if he had done what he had set out to do. His one purpose in life was not to be beaten, never to fail, though he should throw away to-morrow what he had won to-day. So it was that to conquer Sunnysides was for the moment the one thing that counted, and he would have no rest until it was done.

Twilight settled down upon the valley. Haig’s pipe went out, and still he stood gazing at Sunnysides. In the dusk the horse glowed like a living jewel that holds the light when the sun has gone. Night fell, and the golden hide became a shimmer in the dark, as the outlaw moved restlessly to and fro in his prison. Then, of a sudden, with the unexpectedness and unreason of a dog’s wolf-howl at the rising moon, there rose from the gloom of the corral a shrill, wild neigh that shattered the peaceful silence of the night.

Haig left the fence, and walked swiftly to the barn.

“Farrish!” he said shortly. “We’ll break Sunnysides to-morrow. Tell Pete and Curly not to ride away in the morning. The cattle can wait.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE CHALLENGE OF THE BRUTE

There had been yellow, mellow weather for weeks on weeks, but this day dawned hard and cold. Some projected rancor of the winter was in the air. Westward the peaks were blanketed with thick gray clouds, while eastward a sullen redness showed where the sun strove to rise on an angry world. The wind was the kind that scrapes raw the nerves, buffeting man and beast with cross-currents and unexpected blasts, howling and shrieking around chimneys and gables, covering everything with dust and sand.