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It was very dark, and the wind was increasing. The last gust hadbeen preceded by an ominous roaring down the whole mountain-side, whichcontinued for some time after the trees in the little valley had lapsedinto silence. The air was filled with a faint, cool, sodden odor, as ofstirred forest depths. In those intervals of silence the darknessseemed to increase in proportion and grow almost palpable. Yet out ofthis sightless and soundless void now came the tinkle of a spur'srowels, the dry crackling of saddle leathers, and the muffled plunge ofa hoof in the thick carpet of dust and desiccated leaves. Then a voice,which in spite of its matter-of-fact reality the obscurity lent acertain mystery to, said:—
"I can't make out anything! Where the devil have we got to, anyway?It's as black as Tophet, here ahead!"
"Strike a light and make a flare with something," returned a secondvoice. "Look where you're shoving to—now—keep your horseoff, will ye."
There was more muffled plunging, a silence, the rustle of paper, thequick spurt of a match, and then the uplifting of a flickering flame.But it revealed only the heads and shoulders of three horsemen, framedwithin a nebulous ring of light, that still left their horses and eventheir lower figures in impenetrable shadow. Then the flame leaped upand died out with a few zigzagging sparks that were falling to theground, when a third voice, that was low but somewhat pleasant in itscadence, said:—
"Be careful where you throw that. You were careless last time. Withthis wind and the leaves like tinder, you might send a furnace blastthrough the woods."
"Then at least we'd see where we were."
Nevertheless, he moved his horse, whose trampling hoofs beat out thelast fallen spark. Complete darkness and silence again followed.Presently the first speaker continued:—
"I reckon we'll have to wait here till the next squall clears awaythe scud from the sky? Hello! What's that?"
Out of the obscurity before them appeared a faint light,—a dimbut perfectly defined square of radiance,—which, however, did notappear to illuminate anything around it. Suddenly it disappeared.
"That's a house—it's a light in a window," said the secondvoice.
"House be d—d!" retorted the first speaker. "A house with awindow on Galloper's Ridge, fifteen miles from anywhere? You'recrazy!"
Nevertheless, from the muffled plunging and tinkling that followed,they seemed to be moving in the direction where the light had appeared.Then there was a pause.
"There's nothing but a rocky outcrop here, where a house couldn'tstand, and we're off the trail again," said the first speakerimpatiently.
"Stop!—there it is again!"
The same square of light appeared once more, but the horsemen hadevidently diverged in the darkness, for it seemed to be in a differentdirection. But it was more distinct, and as they gazed a shadowappeared upon its radiant surface—the profile of a human face.Then the light suddenly went out, and the face vanished with it.
"It IS a window, and there was some one behind it," said the secondspeaker emphatically.
"It was a woman's face," said the pleasant voice.
"Whoever it is, just hail them, so that we can get our bearings.Sing out! All together!"
The three voices rose in a prolonged shout, in which, however, thedistinguishing quality of the pleasant voice was sustained. But therewas no response from the darkness beyond. The shouting was repeatedafter an interval with the same result: the silence and obscurityremained unchanged.
"Let's get out of this," said the first speaker angrily; "house orno house, man or woman, we're not wanted, and we'll make nothingwaltzing round here!"
"Hush!" said the second voice. "Sh-h! Listen."
The leaves of the nearest trees were trilling audibly. Then came asudden gust that swept the fronds of the taller ferns into their faces,and laid the thin, lithe whips of alder over their horses' flankssharply. It was followed by the distant sea-like roaring of themountain-side.
"That's a little more like it!" said the first speaker joyfully."Another blow like that and we're all right. And look! there's alightenin' up over the trail we came by."
There was indeed a faint glow in that direction, like the firstsuffusion of dawn, permitting the huge shoulder of the mountain alongwhose flanks they had been journeying to be distinctly seen. The soddenbreath of the stirred forest depths was slightly tainted with an acridfume.
"That's the match you threw away two hours ago," said the pleasantvoice deliberately. "It's caught the dry brush in the trail round thebend."
"Anyhow, it's given us our bearings, boys," said the first speaker,with satisfied accents. "We're all right now; and the wind's liftingthe sky ahead there. Forward now, all together, and let's get out ofthis hell-hole while we can!"
It was so much lighter that the bulk of each horseman could be seenas they moved forward together. But there was no thinning of theobscurity on either side of them. Nevertheless the profile of thehorseman with the pleasant voice seemed to be occasionally turnedbackward, and he suddenly checked his horse.
"There's the window again!" he said. "Look! There—it's goneagain."
"Let it go and be d—d!" returned the leader. "Come on."
They spurred forward in silence. It was not long before the waysidetrees began to dimly show spaces between them, and the ferns to giveway to lower, thick-set shrubs, which in turn yielded to a velvetymoss, with long quiet intervals of netted and tangled grasses. Theregular fall of the horses' feet became a mere rhythmic throbbing. Thensuddenly a single hoof rang out sharply on stone, and the first speakerreined in slightly.
"Thank the Lord we're on the ridge now! and the rest is easy. Tellyou what, though, boys, now we're all right, I don't mind saying that Ididn't take no stock in that blamed corpse light down there. If thereever was a will-o'-the-wisp on a square up mountain, that was one. Itwasn't no window! Some of ye thought ye saw a face too—eh?"
"Yes, and a rather pretty one," said the pleasant voicemeditatively.
"That's the way they'd build that sort of thing, of course. It'slucky ye had to satisfy yourself with looking. Gosh! I feel creepy yet,thinking of it! What are ye looking back for now like Lot's wife?Blamed if I don't think that face bewitched ye."
"I was only thinking about that fire you started," returned theother quietly. "I don't see it now."
"Well—if you did?"
"I was wondering whether it could reach that hollow."
"I reckon that hollow could take care of any casual nat'rel firethat came boomin' along, and go two better every time! Why, I don'tbelieve there was any fire; it was all a piece of that infernal ignisfatuus phantasmagoriana that was played upon us down there!"
With the laugh that followed they started forward again, relapsinginto the silence of tired men at the end of a long journey. Even theirfew remarks were interjectional, or reminiscent of topics whosefreshness had been exhausted with the day. The gaining light whichseemed to come from the ground about them rather than from the still,overcast sky above, defined their individuality more distinctly. Theman who had first spoken, and who seemed to be their leader, wore thevirgin unshaven beard, mustache, and flowing hair of the Californianpioneer, and might have been the eldest; the second speaker was closeshaven, thin, and energetic; the third, with the pleasant voice, inheight, litheness, and suppleness of figure appeared to be the youngestof the party. The trail had now become a grayish streak along the leveltable-land they were following, which also had the singular effect ofappearing lighter than the surrounding landscape, yet of plunging intoutter darkness on either side of its precipitous walls. Nevertheless,at the end of an hour the leader rose in his stirrups with a sigh ofsatisfaction.
"There's the light in Collinson's Mill! There's nothing gaudy andspectacular about that, boys, eh? No, sir! it's a square, honest beaconthat a man can steer by. We'll be there in twenty minutes." He waspointing into the darkness below the already descending trail. Only apioneer's eye could have detected the few pin-pricks of light in theimpenetrable distance, and it was a signal proof of his leadership thatthe others accepted it without seeing it. "It's just ten o'clock," hecontinued, holding a huge silver watch to his eye; "we've wasted anhour on those blamed spooks yonder!"
"We weren't off the trail more than ten minutes, Uncle Dick,"protested the pleasant voice.
"All right, my son; go down there if you like and fetch out yourWitch of Endor, but as for me, I'm going to throw myself the other sideof Collinson's lights. They're good enough for me, and a blamed sightmore stationary!"
The grade was very steep, but they took it, California fashion, at agallop, being genuinely good riders, and using their brains as well astheir spurs in the understanding of their horses, and of certainnatural laws, which the more artificial riders of civilization are aptto overlook. Hence there was no hesitation or indecision communicatedto the nervous creatures they bestrode, who swept over crumbling stonesand slippery ledges with a momentum that took away half their weight,and made a stumble or false step, or indeed anything but an actualcollision, almost impossible. Closing together they avoided the latter,and holding each other well up, became one irresistible wedge-shapedmass. At times they yelled, not from consciousness nor bravado, butfrom the purely animal instinct of warning and to combat thebreathlessness of their descent, until, reaching the level, theycharged across the gravelly bed of a vanished river, and pulled up atCollinson's Mill. The mill itself had long since vanished with theriver, but the building that had once stood for it was used as a rudehostelry for travelers, which, however, bore no legend or invitatorysign. Those who wanted it, knew it; those who passed it by, gave it nooffense.
Collinson himself stood by the door, smoking a contemplative pipe.As they rode up, he disengaged himself from the doorpost listlessly,walked slowly towards them, said reflectively to the leader, "I've beenthinking with you that a vote for Thompson is a vote thrown away," andprepared to lead the horses towards the water tank. He had parted withthem over twelve hours before, but his air of simply renewing arecently interrupted conversation was too common a circumstance toattract their notice. They knew, and he knew, that no one else hadpassed that way since he had last spoken; that the same sun had swungsilently above him and the unchanged landscape, and there had been nointerruption nor diversion to his monotonous thought. The wildernessannihilates time and space with the grim pathos of patience.
Nevertheless he smiled. "Ye don't seem to have got through comingdown yet," he continued, as a few small boulders, loosened in theirrapid descent, came more deliberately rolling and plunging after thetravelers along the gravelly bottom. Then he turned away with thehorses, and, after they were watered, he reentered the house. Hisguests had evidently not waited for his ministration. They had alreadytaken one or two bottles from the shelves behind a wide bar and helpedthemselves, and, glasses in hand, were now satisfying the more imminentcravings of hunger with biscuits from a barrel and slices of smokedherring from a box. Their equally singular host, accepting theirconduct as not unusual, joined the circle they had comfortably drawnround the fireplace, and meditatively kicking a brand back at the fire,said, without looking at them:—
"Well?"
"Well!" returned the leader, leaning back in his chair aftercarefully unloosing the buckle of his belt, but with his eyes also onthe fire,—"well! we've prospected every yard of outcrop along theDivide, and there ain't the ghost of a silver indication anywhere."
"Not a smell," added the close-shaven guest, without raising hiseyes.
They all remained silent, looking at the fire, as if it were the onething they had taken into their confidence. Collinson also addressedhimself to the blaze as he said presently: "It allus seemed to me thatthar was something shiny about that ledge just round the shoulder ofthe spur, over the long canyon."
The leader ejaculated a short laugh. "Shiny, eh? shiny! Ye thinkTHAT a sign? Why, you might as well reckon that because Key's head,over thar, is gray and silvery that he's got sabe and experience." Ashe spoke he looked towards the man with a pleasant voice. The fireshining full upon him revealed the singular fact that while his facewas still young, and his mustache quite dark, his hair was perfectlygray. The object of this attention, far from being disconcerted by thecomparison, added with a smile:—
"Or that he had any silver in his pocket."
Another lapse of silence followed. The wind tore round the house andrumbled in the short, adobe chimney.
"No, gentlemen," said the leader reflectively, "this sort o' thingis played out. I don't take no more stock in that cock-and-bull storyabout the lost Mexican mine. I don't catch on to that Sunday-schoolyarn about the pious, scientific sharp who collected leaves andvegetables all over the Divide, all the while he scientifically knewthat the range was solid silver, only he wouldn't soil his fingers withGod-forsaken lucre. I ain't saying anything agin that fine-spun theorythat Key believes in about volcanic upheavals that set up on endargentiferous rock, but I simply say that I don't see it—with thenaked eye. And I reckon it's about time, boys, as the game's up, thatwe handed in our checks, and left the board."
There was another silence around the fire, another whirl and turmoilwithout. There was no attempt to combat the opinions of their leader;possibly the same sense of disappointed hopes was felt by all, onlythey preferred to let the man of greater experience voice it. He wenton:—
"We've had our little game, boys, ever since we left Rawlin's a weekago; we've had our ups and downs; we've been starved and parched,snowed up and half drowned, shot at by road-agents and horse-thieves,kicked by mules and played with by grizzlies. We've had a heap o' fun,boys, for our money, but I reckon the picnic is about over. So we'llshake hands to-morrow all round and call it square, and go on our waysseparately."
"And what do you think you'll do, Uncle Dick?" said his close-shaven companion listlessly.
"I'll make tracks for a square meal, a bed that a man cancomfortably take off his boots and die in, and some violet-scentedsoap. Civilization's good enough for me! I even reckon I wouldn't mind'the sound of the church-going bell' ef there was a theatre handy, asthere likely would be. But the wilderness is played out."
"You'll be back to it again in six months, Uncle Dick," retorted theother quickly.
Uncle Dick did not reply. It was a peculiarity of the party that intheir isolated companionship they had already exhausted discussion andargument. A silence followed, in which they all looked at the fire asif it was its turn to make a suggestion.
"Collinson," said the pleasant voice abruptly, "who lives in thehollow this side of the Divide, about two miles from the first spurabove the big canyon?"
"Nary soul!"
"Are you sure?"
"Sartin! Thar ain't no one but me betwixt Bald Top andSkinner's— twenty-five miles."
"Of course, YOU'D know if any one had come there lately?" persistedthe pleasant voice.
"I reckon. It ain't a week ago that I tramped the whole distancethat you fellers just rode over."
"There ain't," said the leader deliberately, "any enchanted castleor cabin that goes waltzing round the road with revolving windows andfairy princesses looking out of 'em?"
But Collinson, recognizing this as purely irrelevant humor, withpossibly a trap or pitfall in it, moved away from the fireplace withouta word, and retired to the adjoining kitchen to prepare supper.Presently he reappeared.
"The pork bar'l's empty, boys, so I'll hev to fix ye up with jerkedbeef, potatoes, and flapjacks. Ye see, thar ain't anybody ben over fromSkinner's store for a week."
"All right; only hurry up!" said Uncle Dick cheerfully, settlinghimself back in his chair, "I reckon to turn in as soon as I've rastledwith your hash, for I've got to turn out agin and be off atsun-up."
They were all very quiet again,—so quiet that they could nothelp noticing that the sound of Collinson's preparations for theirsupper had ceased too. Uncle Dick arose softly and walked to thekitchen door. Collinson was sitting before a small kitchen stove, witha fork in his hand, gazing abstractedly before him. At the sound of hisguest's footsteps he started, and the noise of preparation recommenced.Uncle Dick returned to his chair by the fire. Leaning towards the chairof the close-shaven man, he said in a lower voice:—
"He was off agin!"
"What?"
"Thinkin' of that wife of his."
"What about his wife?" asked Key, lowering his voice also.
The three men's heads were close together.
"When Collinson fixed up this mill he sent for his wife in theStates," said Uncle Dick, in a half whisper, "waited a year for her,hanging round and boarding every emigrant wagon that came through thePass. She didn't come—only the news that she was dead." He pausedand nudged his chair still closer—the heads were almost touching."They say, over in the Bar"—his voice had sunk to a completewhisper—"that it was a lie! That she ran away with the man thatwas fetchin' her out. Three thousand miles and three weeks with anotherman upsets some women. But HE knows nothing about it, only he sometimeskinder goes off looney-like, thinking of her." He stopped, the headsseparated; Collinson had appeared at the doorway, his melancholypatience apparently unchanged.
"Grub's on, gentlemen; sit by and eat."
The humble meal was dispatched with zest and silence. A fewinterjectional remarks about the uncertainties of prospecting onlyaccented the other pauses. In ten minutes they were out again by thefireplace with their lit pipes. As there were only three chairs,Collinson stood beside the chimney.
"Collinson," said Uncle Dick, after the usual pause, taking his pipefrom his lips, "as we've got to get up and get at sun-up, we might aswell tell you now that we're dead broke. We've been living for the lastfew weeks on Preble Key's loose change—and that's gone. You'llhave to let this little account and damage stand over."
Collinson's brow slightly contracted, without, however, altering hisgeneral expression of resigned patience.
"I'm sorry for you, boys," he said slowly, "and" (diffidently)"kinder sorry for myself, too. You see, I reckoned on goin' over toSkinner's to-morrow, to fill up the pork bar'l and vote for Mesick andthe wagon-road. But Skinner can't let me have anything more until I'vepaid suthin' on account, as he calls it."
"D'ye mean to say thar's any mountain man as low flung and mean asthat?" said Uncle Dick indignantly.
"But it isn't HIS fault," said Collinson gently; "you see, theywon't send him goods from Sacramento if he don't pay up, and he CAN'Tif I DON'T. Sabe?"
"Ah! that's another thing. They ARE mean—in Sacramento," saidUncle Dick, somewhat mollified.
The other guests murmured an assent to this general proposition.Suddenly Uncle Dick's face brightened.
"Look here! I know Skinner, and I'll stop there— No, blank itall! I can't, for it's off my route! Well, then, we'll fix it this way.Key will go there and tell Skinner that I say that I'LL send the moneyto that Sacramento hound. That'll fix it!"
Collinson's brow cleared; the solution of the difficulty seemed tosatisfy everybody, and the close-shaven man smiled.
"And I'll secure it," he said, "and give Collinson a sight draft onmyself at San Francisco."
"What's that for?" said Collinson, with a sudden suffusion on eachcheek.
"In case of accident."
"Wot accident?" persisted Collinson, with a dark look of suspicionon his usually placid face.
"In case we should forget it," said the close-shaven man, with alaugh.
"And do you suppose that if you boys went and forgot it that I'dhave anything to do with your d—d paper?" said Collinson, a murkycloud coming into his eyes.
"Why, that's only business, Colly," interposed Uncle Dick quickly;"that's all Jim Parker means; he's a business man, don't you see.Suppose we got killed! You've that draft to show."
"Show who?" growled Collinson.
"Why,—hang it!—our friends, our heirs, ourrelations—to get your money, hesitated Uncle Dick.
"And do you kalkilate," said Collinson, with deeply laboring breath,"that if you got killed, that I'd be coming on your folks for the worthof the d—d truck I giv ye? Go 'way! Lemme git out o' this. You'remakin' me tired." He stalked to the door, lit his pipe, and began towalk up and down the gravelly river-bed. Uncle Dick followed him. Fromtime to time the two other guests heard the sounds of alternate protestand explanation as they passed and repassed the windows. Preble Keysmiled, Parker shrugged his shoulders.
"He'll be thinkin' you've begrudged him your grub if youdon't— that's the way with these business men," said Uncle Dick'svoice in one of these intervals. Presently they reentered the house,Uncle Dick saying casually to Parker, "You can leave that draft on thebar when you're ready to go to-morrow;" and the incident was presumedto have ended. But Collinson did not glance in the direction of Parkerfor the rest of the evening; and, indeed, standing with his back to thechimney, more than once fell into that stolid abstraction which wassupposed to be the contemplation of his absent wife.
From this silence, which became infectious, the three guests weresuddenly aroused by a furious clattering down the steep descent of themountain, along the trail they had just ridden! It came near,increasing in sound, until it even seemed to scatter the fine gravel ofthe river-bed against the sides of the house, and then passed in a gustof wind that shook the roof and roared in the chimney. With one commonimpulse the three travelers rose and went to the door. They opened itto a blackness that seemed to stand as another and an iron door beforethem, but to nothing else.
"Somebody went by then," said Uncle Dick, turning to Collinson."Didn't you hear it?"
"Nary," said Collinson patiently, without moving from thechimney.
"What in God's name was it, then?"
"Only some of them boulders you loosed coming down. It's touch andgo with them for days after. When I first came here I used to start upand rush out into the road—like as you would—yellin' andscreechin' after folks that never was there and never went by. Then itgot kinder monotonous, and I'd lie still and let 'em slide. Why, onenight I'd a'sworn that some one pulled up with a yell and shook thedoor. But I sort of allowed to myself that whatever it was, it wasn'twantin' to eat, drink, sleep, or it would come in, and I hadn't anycall to interfere. And in the mornin' I found a rock as big as thatbox, lying chock-a-block agin the door. Then I knowed I was right."
Preble Key remained looking from the door.
"There's a glow in the sky over Big Canyon," he said, with a meaningglance at Uncle Dick.
"Saw it an hour ago," said Collinson. "It must be the woods afirejust round the bend above the canyon. Whoever goes to Skinner's hadbetter give it a wide berth."
Key turned towards Collinson as if to speak, but apparently changedhis mind, and presently joined his companions, who were already rollingthemselves in their blankets, in a series of wooden bunks or berths,ranged as in a ship's cabin, around the walls of a resinous, sawdustyapartment that had been the measuring room of the mill. Collinsondisappeared,—no one knew or seemed to care where,—and, inless than ten minutes from the time that they had returned from thedoor, the hush of sleep and rest seemed to possess the whole house.There was no light but that of the fire in the front room, which threwflickering and gigantic shadows on the walls of the three empty chairsbefore it. An hour later it seemed as if one of the chairs wereoccupied, and a grotesque profile of Collinson's slumbering—ormeditating—face and figure was projected grimly on the rafters asthough it were the hovering guardian spirit of the house. But even thatpassed presently and faded out, and the beleaguering darkness that hadencompassed the house all the evening began to slowly creep in throughevery chink and cranny of the rambling, ill-jointed structure, until itat last obliterated even the faint embers on the hearth. The coolfragrance of the woodland depths crept in with it until the steep ofhuman warmth, the reek of human clothing, and the lingering odors ofstale human victual were swept away in that incorruptible andomnipotent breath. An hour later—and the wilderness hadrepossessed itself of all.
Key, the lightest sleeper, awoke early,—so early that the dawnannounced itself only in two dim squares of light that seemed to growout of the darkness at the end of the room where the windows looked outupon the valley. This reminded him of his woodland vision of the nightbefore, and he lay and watched them until they brightened and began tooutline the figures of his still sleeping companions. But there werefaint stirrings elsewhere,—the soft brushing of a squirrel acrossthe shingled roof, the tiny flutter of invisible wings in the rafters,the "peep" and "squeak" of baby life below the floor. And then he fellinto a deeper sleep, and awoke only when it was broad day.
The sun was shining upon the empty bunks; his companions werealready up and gone. They had separated as they had cometogether,—with the light-hearted irresponsibility ofanimals,— without regret, and scarcely reminiscence; bearing,with cheerful philosophy and the hopefulness of a future unfettered bytheir past, the final disappointment of their quest. If they ever metagain, they would laugh and remember; if they did not, they wouldforget without a sigh. He hurriedly dressed himself, and went outsideto dip his face and hands in the bucket that stood beside the door; butthe clear air, the dazzling sunshine, and the unexpected prospect halfintoxicated him.
The abandoned mill stretched beside him in all the pathos of itspremature decay. The ribs of the water-wheel appeared amid a tangle ofshrubs and driftwood, and were twined with long grasses and stragglingvines; mounds of sawdust and heaps of "brush" had taken upon themselvesa velvety moss where the trickling slime of the vanished river lostitself in sluggish pools, discolored with the dyes of redwood. But onthe other side of the rocky ledge dropped the whole length of thevalley, alternately bathed in sunshine or hidden in drifts of white andclinging smoke. The upper end of the long canyon, and the crests of theridge above him, were lost in this fleecy cloud, which at times seemedto overflow the summits and fall in slow leaps like lazy cataracts downthe mountain-side. Only the range before the ledge was clear; there thegreen pines seemed to swell onward and upward in long mounting billows,until at last they broke against the sky.
In the keen stimulus of the hour and the air Key felt themountaineer's longing for action, and scarcely noticed that Collinsonhad pathetically brought out his pork barrel to scrape together a fewremnants for his last meal. It was not until he had finished hiscoffee, and Collinson had brought up his horse, that a slight sense ofshame at his own and his comrades' selfishness embarrassed his partingwith his patient host. He himself was going to Skinner's to plead forhim; he knew that Parker had left the draft,—he had seen it lyingin the bar,—but a new sense of delicacy kept him from alluding toit now. It was better to leave Collinson with his own peculiar ideas ofthe responsibilities of hospitality unchanged. Key shook his handwarmly, and galloped up the rocky slope. But when he had finallyreached the higher level, and fancied he could even now see the dustraised by his departing comrades on their two diverging paths, althoughhe knew that they had already gone their different ways,—perhapsnever to meet again,—his thoughts and his eyes reverted only tothe ruined mill below him and its lonely occupant.
He could see him quite distinctly in that clear air, still standingbefore his door. And then he appeared to make a parting gesture withhis hand, and something like snow fluttered in the air above his head.It was only the torn fragments of Parker's draft, which this homelygentleman of the Sierras, standing beside his empty pork barrel, hadscattered to the four winds.
Key's attention was presently directed to something more importantto his present purpose. The keen wind which he had faced in mountingthe grade had changed, and was now blowing at his back. His experienceof forest fires had already taught him that this was too often only thecold air rushing in to fill the vacuum made by the conflagration, andit needed not his sensation of an acrid smarting in his eyes, and anunaccountable dryness in the air which he was now facing, to convincehim that the fire was approaching him. It had evidently traveled fasterthan he had expected, or had diverged from its course. He wasdisappointed, not because it would oblige him to take another route toSkinner's, as Collinson had suggested, but for a very different reason.Ever since his vision of the preceding night, he had resolved torevisit the hollow and discover the mystery. He had kept his purpose asecret,—partly because he wished to avoid the jesting remarks ofhis companions, but particularly because he wished to go alone, from avery singular impression that although they had witnessed the incidenthe had really seen more than they did. To this was also added thehaunting fear he had felt during the night that this mysterioushabitation and its occupants were in the track of the conflagration. Hehad not dared to dwell upon it openly on account of Uncle Dick'sevident responsibility for the origin of the fire; he appeased hisconscience with the reflection that the inmates of the dwelling nodoubt had ample warning in time to escape. But still, he and hiscompanions ought to have stopped to help them, and then—but herehe paused, conscious of another reason he could scarcely voice then, oreven now. Preble Key had not passed the age of romance, but like otherromancists he thought he had evaded it by treating it practically.
Meantime he had reached the fork where the trail diverged to theright, and he must take that direction if he wished to make a detour ofthe burning woods to reach Skinner's. His momentary indecisioncommunicated itself to his horse, who halted. Recalled to himself, helooked down mechanically, when his attention was attracted by anunfamiliar object lying in the dust of the trail. It was a smallslipper—so small that at first he thought it must have belongedto some child. He dismounted and picked it up. It was worn and shapedto the foot. It could not have lain there long, for it was not fillednor discolored by the wind-blown dust of the trail, as all otheradjacent objects were. If it had been dropped by a passing traveler,that traveler must have passed Collinson's, going or coming, within thelast twelve hours. It was scarcely possible that the shoe could havedropped from the foot without the wearer's knowing it, and it must havebeen dropped in an urgent flight, or it would have been recovered. Thuspractically Key treated his romance. And having done so, he instantlywheeled his horse and plunged into the road in the direction of thefire.
But he was surprised after twenty minutes' riding to find that thecourse of the fire had evidently changed. It was growing clearer beforehim; the dry heat seemed to come more from the right, in the directionof the detour he should have taken to Skinner's. This seemed almostprovidential, and in keeping with his practical treatment of hisromance, as was also the fact that in all probability the fire had notyet visited the little hollow which he intended to explore. He knew hewas nearing it now; the locality had been strongly impressed upon himeven in the darkness of the previous evening. He had passed the rockyledge; his horse's hoofs no longer rang out clearly; slowly andperceptibly they grew deadened in the springy mosses, and were finallylost in the netted grasses and tangled vines that indicated thevicinity of the densely wooded hollow. Here were already some of thewider spaced vanguards of that wood; but here, too, a peculiarcircumstance struck him. He was already descending the slightdeclivity; but the distance, instead of deepening in leafy shadow, wasactually growing lighter. Here were the outskirting sentinels of thewood— but the wood itself was gone! He spurred his horse throughthe tall arch between the opened columns, and pulled up inamazement.
The wood, indeed, was gone, and the whole hollow filled with thealready black and dead stumps of the utterly consumed forest! More thanthat, from the indications before him, the catastrophe must have almostimmediately followed his retreat from the hollow on the precedingnight. It was evident that the fire had leaped the intervening shoulderof the spur in one of the unaccountable, but by no means rare,phenomena of this kind of disaster. The circling heights around wereyet untouched; only the hollow, and the ledge of rock against whichthey had blundered with their horses when they were seeking themysterious window in last evening's darkness, were calcined anddestroyed. He dismounted and climbed the ledge, still warm from thespent fire. A large mass of grayish outcrop had evidently been thefocus of the furnace blast of heat which must have raged for hours inthis spot. He was skirting its crumbling debris when he startedsuddenly at a discovery which made everything else fade into utterinsignificance. Before him, in a slight depression formed by a fault orlapse in the upheaved strata, lay the charred and incinerated remainsof a dwelling-house leveled to the earth! Originally half hidden by anatural abattis of growing myrtle and ceanothus which covered thiscounter-scarp of rock towards the trail, it must have stood within ahundred feet of them during their halt!
Even in its utter and complete obliteration by the furious furnaceblast that had swept across it, there was still to be seen anunmistakable ground plan and outline of a four-roomed house. Whileeverything that was combustible had succumbed to that intense heat,there was still enough half-fused and warped metal, fractured ironplate, and twisted and broken bars to indicate the kitchen and toolshed. Very little had, evidently, been taken away; the house and itscontents were consumed where they stood. With a feeling of horror anddesperation Key at last ventured to disturb two or three of theblackened heaps that lay before him. But they were only vestiges ofclothing, bedding, and crockery—there was no human trace that hecould detect. Nor was there any suggestion of the original conditionand quality of the house, except its size: whether the ordinaryunsightly cabin of frontier "partners," or some sylvancottage—there was nothing left but the usual ignoble and unsavoryruins of burnt-out human habitation.
And yet its very existence was a mystery. It had been unknown atCollinson's, its nearest neighbor, and it was presumable that it wasequally unknown at Skinner's. Neither he nor his companions haddetected it in their first journey by day through the hollow, and onlythe tell-tale window at night had been a hint of what was even then sosuccessfully concealed that they could not discover it when they hadblundered against its rock foundation. For concealed it certainly was,and intentionally so. But for what purpose?
He gave his romance full play for a few minutes with this question.Some recluse, preferring the absolute simplicity of nature, or perhapswearied with the artificialities of society, had secluded himself herewith the company of his only daughter. Proficient as a pathfinder, hehad easily discovered some other way of provisioning his house from thesettlements than by the ordinary trails past Collinson's or Skinner's,which would have betrayed his vicinity. But recluses are not usuallyaccompanied by young daughters, whose relations with the world, notbeing as antagonistic, would make them uncertain companions. Why not awife? His presumption of the extreme youth of the face he had seen atthe window was after all only based upon the slipper he had found. Andif a wife, whose absolute acceptance of such confined seclusion mightbe equally uncertain, why not somebody else's wife? Here was a reasonfor concealment, and the end of an episode, not unknown even in thewilderness. And here was the work of the Nemesis who had overtaken themin their guilty contentment! The story, even to its moral, wascomplete. And yet it did not entirely satisfy him, so superior is theabsolutely unknown to the most elaborate theory.
His attention had been once or twice drawn towards the crumblingwall of outcrop, which during the conflagration must have felt the fullforce of the fiery blast that had swept through the hollow and spentits fury upon it. It bore evidence of the intense heat in crackedfissures and the crumbling debris that lay at its feet. Key picked upsome of the still warm fragments, and was not surprised that theyeasily broke in a gritty, grayish powder in his hands. In spite of hispreoccupation with the human interest, the instinct of the prospectorwas still strong upon him, and he almost mechanically put some of thepieces in his pockets. Then after another careful survey of thelocality for any further record of its vanished tenants, he returned tohis horse. Here he took from his saddle-bags, half listlessly, aprecious phial encased in wood, and, opening it, poured into anotherthick glass vessel part of a smoking fluid; he then crumbled some ofthe calcined fragments into the glass, and watched the ebullition thatfollowed with mechanical gravity. When it had almost ceased he drainedoff the contents into another glass, which he set down, and thenproceeded to pour some water from his drinking-flask into the ordinarytin cup which formed part of his culinary traveling-kit. Into this heput three or four pinches of salt from his provision store. Thendipping his fingers into the salt and water, he allowed a drop to fallinto the glass. A white cloud instantly gathered in the colorlessfluid, and then fell in a fine film to the bottom of the glass. Key'seyes concentrated suddenly, the listless look left his face. Hisfingers trembled lightly as he again let the salt water fall into thesolution, with exactly the same result! Again and again he repeated it,until the bottom of the glass was quite gray with the fallenprecipitate. And his own face grew as gray.
His hand trembled no longer as he carefully poured off the solutionso as not to disturb the precipitate at the bottom. Then he drew outhis knife, scooped a little of the gray sediment upon its point, andemptying his tin cup, turned it upside down upon his knee, placed thesediment upon it, and began to spread it over the dull surface of itsbottom with his knife. He had intended to rub it briskly with his knifeblade. But in the very action of spreading it, the first stroke of hisknife left upon the sediment and the cup the luminous streak ofburnished silver!
He stood up and drew a long breath to still the beatings of hisheart. Then he rapidly re-climbed the rock, and passed over the ruinsagain, this time plunging hurriedly through, and kicking aside thecharred heaps without a thought of what they had contained. Key was notan unfeeling man, he was not an unrefined one: he was a gentleman byinstinct, and had an intuitive sympathy for others; but in that instanthis whole mind was concentrated upon the calcined outcrop! And hisfirst impulse was to see if it bore any evidence of previousexamination, prospecting, or working by its suddenly evicted neighborsand owners. There was none: they had evidently not known it. Nor wasthere any reason to suppose that they would ever return to their hiddenhome, now devastated and laid bare to the open sunlight and open trail.They were already far away; their guilty personal secret would keepthem from revisiting it. An immense feeling of relief came over thesoul of this moral romancer; a momentary recognition of the Most Highin this perfect poetical retribution. He ran back quickly to hissaddle-bags, drew out one or two carefully written, formal notices ofpreemption and claim, which he and his former companions had carried intheir brief partnership, erased their signatures and left only his ownname, with another grateful sense of Divine interference, as he thoughtof them speeding far away in the distance, and returned to the ruins.With unconscious irony, he selected a charred post from the embers,stuck it in the ground a few feet from the debris of outcrop, andfinally affixed his "Notice." Then, with a conscientiousness bornpossibly of his new religious convictions, he dislodged with hispickaxe enough of the brittle outcrop to constitute that presumption of"actual work" upon the claim which was legally required for itsmaintenance, and returned to his horse. In replacing his things in hissaddle-bags he came upon the slipper, and for an instant so completewas his preoccupation in his later discovery, that he was about tothrow it away as useless impedimenta, until it occurred to him, albeitvaguely, that it might be of service to him in its connection with thatdiscovery, in the way of refuting possible false claimants. He was notaware of any faithlessness to his momentary romance, any more than hewas conscious of any disloyalty to his old companions, in hisgratification that his good fortune had come to him alone. Thissingular selection was a common experience of prospecting. And therewas something about the magnitude of his discovery that seemed to pointto an individual achievement. He had made a rough calculation of therichness of the lode from the quantity of precipitate in his rudeexperiment; he had estimated its length, breadth, and thickness fromhis slight knowledge of geology and the theories then ripe; and theyield would be colossal! Of course, he would require capital to workit, he would have to "let in" others to his scheme and his prosperity;but the control of it would always be HIS OWN.
Then he suddenly started as he had never in his life before startedat the foot of man! For there was a footfall in the charred brush; andnot twenty yards from him stood Collinson, who had just dismounted froma mule. The blood rushed to Key's pale face.
"Prospectin' agin?" said the proprietor of the mill, with his wearysmile.
"No," said Key quickly, "only straightening my pack." The blooddeepened in his cheek at his instinctive lie. Had he carefully thoughtit out before, he would have welcomed Collinson, and told him all. Butnow a quick, uneasy suspicion flashed upon him. Perhaps his late hosthad lied, and knew of the existence of the hidden house.Perhaps—he had spoken of some "silvery rock" the nightbefore—he even knew something of the lode itself. He turned uponhim with an aggressive face. But Collinson's next words dissipated thethought.
"I'm glad I found ye, anyhow," he said. "Ye see, arter you left, Isaw ye turn off the trail and make for the burning woods instead o'goin' round. I sez to myself, 'That fellow is making straight forSkinner's. He's sorter worried about me and that empty porkbar'l,'—I hadn't oughter spoke that away afore you boys,anyhow,— 'and he's takin' risks to help me.' So I reckoned I'dthrow my leg over Jenny here, and look arter ye—and go over toSkinner's myself—and vote."
"Certainly," said Key with cheerful alacrity, and the one thought ofgetting Collinson away; "we'll go together, and we'll see that thatpork barrel is filled!" He glowed quite honestly with this sudden ideaof remembering Collinson through his good fortune. "Let's get onquickly, for we may find the fire between us on the outer trail." Hehastily mounted his horse.
"Then you didn't take this as a short cut," said Collinson, withdull perseverance in his idea. "Why not? It looks all clear ahead."
"Yes," said Key hurriedly, "but it's been only a leap of the fire,it's still raging round the bend. We must go back to the cross- trail."His face was still flushing with his very equivocating, and his anxietyto get his companion away. Only a few steps further might bringCollinson before the ruins and the "Notice," and that discovery mustnot be made by him until Key's plans were perfected. A sudden aversionto the man he had a moment before wished to reward began to takepossession of him. "Come on," he added almost roughly.
But to his surprise, Collinson yielded with his usual grim patience,and even a slight look of sympathy with his friend's annoyance. "Ireckon you're right, and mebbee you're in a hurry to get to Skinner'sall along o' MY business, I oughtn't hev told you boys what I did." Asthey rode rapidly away he took occasion to add, when Key had reined inslightly, with a feeling of relief at being out of the hollow, "I wasthinkin', too, of what you'd asked about any one livin' hereunbeknownst to me."
"Well," said Key, with a new nervousness.
"Well; I only had an idea o' proposin' that you and me just took alook around that holler whar you thought you saw suthin'!" saidCollinson tentatively.
"Nonsense," said Key hurriedly. "We really saw nothing—it wasall a fancy; and Uncle Dick was joking me because I said I thought Isaw a woman's face," he added with a forced laugh.
Collinson glanced at him, half sadly. "Oh! You were only funnin',then. I oughter guessed that. I oughter have knowed it from UncleDick's talk!" They rode for some moments in silence; Key preoccupiedand feverish, and eager only to reach Skinner's. Skinner was not onlypostmaster but "registrar" of the district, and the new discoverer didnot feel entirely safe until he had put his formal notification andclaims "on record." This was no publication of his actual secret, norany indication of success, but was only a record that would in allprobability remain unnoticed and unchallenged amidst the many otherhopeful dreams of sanguine prospectors. But he was suddenly startledfrom his preoccupation.
"Ye said ye war straightenin' up yer pack just now," said Collinsonslowly.
"Yes!" said Key almost angrily, "and I was."
"Ye didn't stop to straighten it up down at the forks of the trail,did ye?"
"I may have," said Key nervously. "But why?"
"Ye won't mind my axin' ye another question, will ye? Ye ain'tcarryin' round with ye no woman's shoe?"
Key felt the blood drop from his cheeks. "What do you mean?" hestammered, scarcely daring to lift his conscious eyelids to hiscompanion's glance. But when he did so he was amazed to find thatCollinson's face was almost as much disturbed as his own.
"I know it ain't the square thing to ask ye, but this is how it is,"said Collinson hesitatingly. "Ye see just down by the fork of the trailwhere you came I picked up a woman's shoe. It sorter got me! For I sezto myself, 'Thar ain't no one bin by my shanty, comin' or goin', forweeks but you boys, and that shoe, from the looks of it, ain't binthere as many hours.' I knew there wasn't any wimin hereabouts. Ireckoned it couldn't hev bin dropped by Uncle Dick or that other man,for you would have seen it on the road. So I allowed it might have binYOU. And yer it is." He slowly drew from his pocket—what Key wasfully prepared to see— the mate of the slipper Key had in hissaddle-bags! The fair fugitive had evidently lost them both.
But Key was better prepared now (perhaps this kind of dissimulationis progressive), and quickly alive to the necessity of throwingCollinson off this unexpected scent. And his companion's own suggestionwas right to his hand, and, as it seemed, again quite providential! Helaughed, with a quick color, which, however, appeared to help his lie,as he replied half hysterically, "You're right, old man, I own up, it'smine! It's d—d silly, I know—but then, we're all foolswhere women are concerned—and I wouldn't have lost that slipperfor a mint of money."
He held out his hand gayly, but Collinson retained the slipper whilehe gravely examined it.
"You wouldn't mind telling me where you mought hev got that?" hesaid meditatively.
"Of course I should mind," said Key with a well-affected mingling ofmirth and indignation. "What are you thinking of, you old rascal? Whatdo you take me for?"
But Collinson did not laugh. "You wouldn't mind givin' me the sizeand shape and general heft of her as wore that shoe?"
"Most decidedly I should do nothing of the kind!" said Key halfimpatiently. "Enough, that it was given to me by a very pretty girl.There! that's all you will know."
"GIVEN to you?" said Collinson, lifting his eyes.
"Yes," returned Key sharply.
Collinson handed him the slipper gravely. "I only asked you," hesaid slowly, but with a certain quiet dignity which Key had neverbefore seen in his face, "because thar was suthin' about the size, andshape, and fillin' out o' that shoe that kinder reminded me of some'un; but that some 'un—her as mought hev stood up in thatshoe—ain't o' that kind as would ever stand in the shoes of heras YOU know at all." The rebuke, if such were intended, lay quite asmuch in the utter ignoring of Key's airy gallantry and levity as in anyconscious slur upon the fair fame of his invented Dulcinea. Yet Keyoddly felt a strong inclination to resent the aspersion as well asCollinson's gratuitous morality; and with a mean recollection of UncleDick's last evening's scandalous gossip, he said sarcastically, "And,of course, that some one YOU were thinking of was your lawfulwife."
"It war!" said Collinson gravely.
Perhaps it was something in Collinson's manner, or his ownpreoccupation, but he did not pursue the subject, and the conversationlagged. They were nearing, too, the outer edge of the presentconflagration, and the smoke, lying low in the unburnt woods, orcreeping like an actual exhalation of the soil, blinded them so that attimes they lost the trail completely. At other times, from the intenseheat, it seemed as if they were momentarily impinging upon the burningarea, or were being caught in a closing circle. It was remarkable thatwith his sudden accession of fortune Key seemed to lose his usual frankand careless fearlessness, and impatiently questioned his companion'swoodcraft. There were intervals when he regretted his haste to reachSkinner's by this shorter cut, and began to bitterly attribute it tohis desire to serve Collinson. Ah, yes! it would be fine indeed, ifjust as he were about to clutch the prize he should be sacrificedthrough the ignorance and stupidity of this heavy-handed moralist athis side! But it was not until, through that moralist's guidance, theyclimbed a steep acclivity to a second ridge, and were comparativelysafe, that he began to feel ashamed of his surly silence or surlierinterruptions. And Collinson, either through his unconquerablepatience, or possibly in a fit of his usual uxorious abstraction,appeared to take no notice of it.
A sloping table-land of weather-beaten boulders now effectuallyseparated them from the fire on the lower ridge. They presently beganto descend on the further side of the crest, and at last dropped upon awagon-road, and the first track of wheels that Key had seen for afortnight. Rude as it was, it seemed to him the highway to fortune, forhe knew that it passed Skinner's and then joined the great stage-roadto Marysville,—now his ultimate destination. A few rods furtheron they came in view of Skinner's, lying like a dingy forgotten wintersnowdrift on the mountain shelf.
It contained a post-office, tavern, blacksmith's shop, "generalstore," and express-office, scarcely a dozen buildings in all, but alldiffering from Collinson's Mill in some vague suggestion of vitality,as if the daily regular pulse of civilization still beat, albeitlanguidly, in that remote extremity. There was anticipation andaccomplishment twice a day; and as Key and Collinson rode up to theexpress-office, the express-wagon was standing before the door ready tostart to meet the stagecoach at the cross-roads three miles away. Thisagain seemed a special providence to Key. He had a brief officialcommunication with Skinner as registrar, and duly recorded his claim;he had a hasty and confidential aside with Skinner as generalstorekeeper, and such was the unconscious magnetism developed by thisembryo millionaire that Skinner extended the necessary credit toCollinson on Key's word alone. That done, he rejoined Collinson in highspirits with the news, adding cheerfully, "And I dare say, if you wantany further advances Skinner will give them to you on Parker'sdraft."
"You mean that bit o' paper that chap left," said Collinsongravely.
"Yes."
"I tore it up."
"You tore it up?" ejaculated Key.
"You hear me? Yes!" said Collinson.
Key stared at him. Surely it was again providential that he had notintrusted his secret to this utterly ignorant and prejudiced man! Theslight twinges of conscience that his lie about the slippers had causedhim disappeared at once. He could not have trusted him even in that; itwould have been like this stupid fanatic to have prevented Key'spreemption of that claim, until he, Collinson, had satisfied himself ofthe whereabouts of the missing proprietor. Was he quite sure thatCollinson would not revisit the spot when he had gone? But he was readyfor the emergency.
He had intended to leave his horse with Skinner as security forCollinson's provisions, but Skinner's liberality had made thisunnecessary, and he now offered it to Collinson to use and keep for himuntil called for. This would enable his companion to "pack" his goodson the mule, and oblige him to return to the mill by the wagon-road and"outside trail," as more commodious for the two animals.
"Ye ain't afeared o' the road agents?" suggested a bystander; "theyjust swarm on galloper's Ridge, and they 'held up' the down stage onlylast week."
"They're not so lively since the deputy-sheriff's got a new ideaabout them, and has been lying low in the brush near Bald Top,"returned Skinner. "Anyhow, they don't stop teams nor 'packs' unlessthere's a chance of their getting some fancy horseflesh by it; and Ireckon thar ain't much to tempt them thar," he added, with a satiricalside glance at his customer's cattle. But Key was already standing inthe express-wagon, giving a farewell shake to his patient companion'shand, and this ingenuous pleasantry passed unnoticed. Nevertheless, asthe express-wagon rolled away, his active fancy began to consider thisnew danger that might threaten the hidden wealth of his claim. But hereflected that for a time, at least, only the crude ore would be takenout and shipped to Marysville in a shape that offered no profit to thehighwaymen. Had it been a gold mine!—but here again was theinterposition of Providence!
A week later Preble Key returned to Skinner's with a foreman and tenmen, and an unlimited credit to draw upon at Marysville! Expeditions ofthis kind created no surprise at Skinner's. Parties had before thisentered the wilderness gayly, none knew where or what for; the sedateand silent woods had kept their secret while there; they hadevaporated, none knew when or where—often, alas! with an unpaidaccount at Skinner's. Consequently, there was nothing in Key's party tochallenge curiosity. In another week a rambling, one-storied shed ofpine logs occupied the site of the mysterious ruins, and contained theparty; in two weeks excavations had been made, and the whole face ofthe outcrop was exposed; in three weeks every vestige of former tenancywhich the fire had not consumed was trampled out by the alien feet ofthese toilers of the "Sylvan Silver Hollow Company." None of Key'sformer companions would have recognized the hollow in its blackenedleveling and rocky foundation; even Collinson would not have rememberedthis stripped and splintered rock, with its heaps of fresh debris, asthe place where he had overtaken Key. And Key himself had forgotten, inhis triumph, everything but the chance experiment that had led to hissuccess.
Perhaps it was well, therefore, that one night, when the darknesshad mercifully fallen upon this scene of sylvan desolation, and itsstill more incongruous and unsavory human restoration, and the lowmurmur of the pines occasionally swelled up from the unscathedmountain-side, a loud shout and the trampling of horses' feet awoke thedwellers in the shanty. Springing to their feet, they hurriedly seizedtheir weapons and rushed out, only to be confronted by a dark,motionless ring of horsemen, two flaming torches of pine knots, and alow but distinct voice of authority. In their excitement, half-awakenedsuspicion, and confusion, they were affected by its note of calmpreparation and conscious power.
"Drop those guns—hold up your hands! We've got every man ofyou covered."
Key was no coward; the men, though flustered, were not cravens: butthey obeyed. "Trot out your leader! Let him stand out there, clear,beside that torch!"
One of the gleaming pine knots disengaged itself from the darkcircle and moved to the centre, as Preble Key, cool and confident,stepped beside it.
"That will do," said the immutable voice. "Now, we want Jack Riggs,Sydney Jack, French Pete, and One-eyed Charley."
A vivid reminiscence of the former night scene in thehollow—of his own and his companions voices raised in thedarkness—flashed across Key. With an instinctive premonition thatthis invasion had something to do with the former tenant, he saidcalmly:—
"Who wants them?"
"The State of California," said the voice.
"The State of California must look further," returned Key in his oldpleasant voice; "there are no such names among my party."
"Who are you?"
"The manager of the 'Sylvan Silver Hollow Company,' and these are myworkmen.
There was a hurried movement, and the sound of whispering in thehitherto dark and silent circle, and then the voice rose again:
"You have the papers to prove that?"
"Yes, in the cabin. And you?"
"I've a warrant to the sheriff of Sierra."
There was a pause, and the voice went on lessconfidently:—
"How long have you been here?"
"Three weeks. I came here the day of the fire and took up thisclaim."
"There was no other house here?"
"There were ruins,—you can see them still. It may have been aburnt-up cabin."
The voice disengaged itself from the vague background and cameslowly forwards:—
"It was a den of thieves. It was the hiding-place of Jack Riggs andhis gang of road agents. I've been hunting this spot for three weeks.And now the whole thing's up!"
There was a laugh from Key's men, but it was checked as the owner ofthe voice slowly ranged up beside the burning torch and they saw hisface. It was dark and set with the defeat of a brave man.
"Won't you come in and take something?" said Key kindly.
"No. It's enough fool work for me to have routed ye out already. ButI suppose it's all in my d—d day's work! Good-night! Forwardthere! Get!"
The two torches danced forwards, with the trailing off of vagueshadows in dim procession; there was a clatter over the rocks and theywere gone. Then, as Preble Key gazed after them, he felt that with themhad passed the only shadow that lay upon his great fortune; and withthe last tenant of the hollow a proscribed outlaw and fugitive, he washenceforth forever safe in his claim and his discovery. And yet, oddlyenough, at that moment, as he turned away, for the first time in threeweeks there passed before his fancy with a stirring of reproach avision of the face that he had seen at the window.
Of the great discovery in Sylvan Silver Hollow it would seem thatCollinson as yet knew nothing. In spite of Key's fears that he mightstray there on his return from Skinner's, he did not, nor did heafterwards revisit the locality. Neither the news of the registry ofthe claim nor the arrival of Key's workmen ever reached him. The fewtravelers who passed his mill came from the valley to cross the Divideon their way to Skinner's, and returned by the longer but easier detourof the stage-road over Galloper's Ridge. He had no chance toparticipate in the prosperity that flowed from the opening of the mine,which plentifully besprinkled Skinner's settlement; he was too far awayto profit even by the chance custom of Key's Sabbath wandering workmen.His isolation from civilization (for those who came to him from thevalley were rude Western emigrants like himself) remained undisturbed.The return of the prospecting party to his humble hospitality thatnight had been an exceptional case; in his characteristic simplicity hedid not dream that it was because they had nowhere else to go in theirpenniless condition. It was an incident to be pleasantly remembered,but whose nonrecurrence did not disturb his infinite patience. His porkbarrel and flour sack had been replenished for other travelers; his ownwants were few.
It was a day or two after the midnight visit of the sheriff toSilver Hollow that Key galloped down the steep grade to Collinson's. Hewas amused, albeit, in his new importance, a little aggrieved also, tofind that Collinson had as usual confounded his descent with that ofthe generally detached boulder, and that he was obliged to add hisvoice to the general uproar. This brought Collinson to his door.
"I've had your hoss hobbled out among the chickweed and clover inthe green pasture back o' the mill, and he's picked up that much thathe's lookin' fat and sassy," he said quietly, beginning to mechanicallyunstrap Key's bridle, even while his guest was in the act ofdismounting. "His back's quite healed up."
Key could not restrain a shrug of impatience. It was three weekssince they had met,—three weeks crammed with excitement, energy,achievement, and fortune to Key; and yet this place and this man wereas stupidly unchanged as when he had left them. A momentary fancy thatthis was the reality, that he himself was only awakening from somedelusive dream, came over him. But Collinson's next words werepractical.
"I reckoned that maybe you'd write from Marysville to Skinner tosend for the hoss, and forward him to ye, for I never kalkilated you'dcome back."
It was quite plain from this that Collinson had heard nothing. Butit was also awkward, as Key would now have to tell the whole story, andreveal the fact that he had been really experimenting when Collinsonovertook him in the hollow. He evaded this by post- dating hisdiscovery of the richness of the ore until he had reached Marysville.But he found some difficulty in recounting his good fortune: he wasnaturally no boaster, he had no desire to impress Collinson with hispenetration, nor the undaunted energy he had displayed in getting uphis company and opening the mine, so that he was actually embarrassedby his own understatement; and under the grave, patient eyes of hiscompanion, told his story at best lamely. Collinson's face betrayedneither profound interest nor the slightest resentment. When Key hadended his awkward recital, Collinson said slowly:—
"Then Uncle Dick and that other Parker feller ain't got no show inthis yer find."
"No," said Key quickly. "Don't you remember we broke up ourpartnership that morning and went off our own ways. You don't suppose,"he added with a forced half-laugh, "that if Uncle Dick or Parker hadstruck a lead after they left me, they'd have put me in it?"
"Wouldn't they?" asked Collinson gravely.
"Of course not." He laughed a little more naturally, but presentlyadded, with an uneasy smile, "What makes you think they would?"
"Nuthin'!" said Collinson promptly.
Nevertheless, when they were seated before the fire, with glasses intheir hands, Collinson returned patiently to the subject:
"You wuz saying they went their way, and you went yours. But yourway was back on the old way that you'd all gone together."
But Key felt himself on firmer ground here, and answereddeliberately and truthfully, "Yes, but I only went back to the hollowto satisfy myself if there really was any house there, and if therewas, to warn the occupants of the approaching fire."
"And there was a house there," said Collinson thoughtfully.
"Only the ruins." He stopped and flushed quickly, for he rememberedthat he had denied its existence at their former meeting. "That is," hewent on hurriedly, "I found out from the sheriff, you know, that therehad been a house there. But," he added, reverting to his strongerposition, "my going back there was an accident, and my picking up theoutcrop was an accident, and had no more to do with our partnershipprospecting than you had. In fact," he said, with a reassuring laugh,"you'd have had a better right to share in my claim, coming there asyou did at that moment, than they. Why, if I'd have known what thething was worth, I might have put you in—only it wanted capitaland some experience." He was glad that he had pitched upon that excuse(it had only just occurred to him), and glanced affably at Collinson.But that gentleman said soberly:—
"No, you wouldn't nuther."
"Why not?" said Key half angrily.
Collinson paused. After a moment he said, "'Cos I wouldn't hev tookanything outer thet place."
Key felt relieved. From what he knew of Collinson's vagaries hebelieved him. He was wise in not admitting him to his confidences atthe beginning; he might have thought it his duty to tell others.
"I'm not so particular," he returned laughingly, "but the silver inthat hole was never touched, nor I dare say even imagined by mortal manbefore. However, there is something else about the hollow that I wantto tell you. You remember the slipper that you picked up?"
"Yes."
"Well, I lied to you about that; I never dropped it. On thecontrary, I had picked up the mate of it very near where you foundyours, and I wanted to know to whom it belonged. For I don't mindtelling you now, Collinson, that I believe there WAS a woman in thathouse, and the same woman whose face I saw at the window. You rememberhow the boys joked me about it—well, perhaps I didn't care thatyou should laugh at me too, but I've had a sore conscience over my lie,for I remembered that you seemed to have some interest in the mattertoo, and I thought that maybe I might have thrown you off the scent. Itseemed to me that if you had any idea who it was, we might now talk thematter over and compare notes. I think you said—at least, Igathered the idea from a remark of yours," he added hastily, as heremembered that the suggestion was his own, and a satiricalone—"that it reminded you of your wife's slipper. Of course, asyour wife is dead, that would offer no clue, and can only be a chanceresemblance, unless"— He stopped.
"Have you got 'em yet?"
"Yes, both." He took them from the pocket of his riding-jacket.
As Collinson received them, his face took upon itself an even graverexpression. "It's mighty cur'ous," he said reflectively, "but lookingat the two of 'em the likeness is more fetchin'. Ye see, my wife had aSTRAIGHT foot, and never wore reg'lar rights and lefts like otherwomen, but kinder changed about; ye see, these shoes is reg'lar rightsand lefts, but never was worn as sich!"
"There may be other women as peculiar," suggested Key.
"There MUST be," said Collinson quietly.
For an instant Key was touched with the manly security of the reply,for, remembering Uncle Dick's scandal, it had occurred to him that theunknown tenant of the robbers' den might be Collinson's wife. He wasglad to be relieved on that point, and went on moreconfidently:—
"So, you see, this woman was undoubtedly in that house on the nightof the fire. She escaped, and in a mighty hurry too, for she had nottime to change her slippers for shoes; she escaped on horseback, forthat is how she lost them. Now what was she doing there with thoserascals, for the face I saw looked as innocent as a saint's."
"Seemed to ye sort o' contrairy, jist as I reckoned my wife's footwould have looked in a slipper that you said was GIV to ye," suggestedCollinson pointedly, but with no implication of reproach in hisvoice.
"Yes," said Key impatiently.
"I've read yarns afore now about them Eyetalian brigands stealin'women," said Collinson reflectively, "but that ain't Californiaroad-agent style. Great Scott! if one even so much as spoke to a woman,they'd have been wiped outer the State long ago. No! the woman as WASthere came there to STAY!"
As Key's face did not seem to express either assent or satisfactionat this last statement, Collinson, after a glance at it, went on with asomewhat gentler gravity: "I see wot's troublin' YOU, Mr. Key; you'vebin thinkin' that mebbee that poor woman might hev bin the better for abit o' that fortin' that you discovered under the very spot where themslippers of hers had often trod. You're thinkin' that mebbee it mighthev turned her and those men from their evil ways."
Mr. Key had been thinking nothing of the kind, but for some obscurereason the skeptical jeer that had risen to his lips remained unsaid.He rose impatiently. "Well, there seems to be no chance of discoveringanything now; the house is burnt, the gang dispersed, and she hasprobably gone with them." He paused, and then laid three or four largegold pieces on the table. "It's for that old bill of our party,Collinson," he said. "I'll settle and collect from each. Some time whenyou come over to the mine, and I hope you'll give us a call, you canbring the horse. Meanwhile you can use him; you'll find he's a littlequicker than the mule. How is business?" he added, with a perfunctoryglance around the vacant room and dusty bar.
"Thar ain't much passin' this way," said Collinson with equalcarelessness, as he gathered up the money, "'cept those boys from thevalley, and they're most always strapped when they come here."
Key smiled as he observed that Collinson offered him no receipt,and, moreover, as he remembered that he had only Collinson's word forthe destruction of Parker's draft. But he merely glanced at hisunconscious host, and said nothing. After a pause he returned in alighter tone: "I suppose you are rather out of the world here. Indeed,I had an idea at first of buying out your mill, Collinson, and puttingin steam power to get out timber for our new buildings, but you see youare so far away from the wagon-road, that we couldn't haul the timberaway. That was the trouble, or I'd have made you a fair offer."
"I don't reckon to ever sell the mill," said Collinson simply. Thenobserving the look of suspicion in his companion's face, he addedgravely, "You see, I rigged up the whole thing when I expected my wifeout from the States, and I calkilate to keep it in memory of her."
Key slightly lifted his brows. "But you never told us, by the way,HOW you ever came to put up a mill here with such an uncertainwater-supply."
"It wasn't onsartin when I came here, Mr. Key; it was a full-fedstream straight from them snow peaks. It was the earthquake didit."
"The earthquake!" repeated Key.
"Yes. Ef the earthquake kin heave up that silver-bearing rock thatyou told us about the first day you kem here, and that you foundt'other day, it could play roots with a mere mill-stream, Ireckon."
"But the convulsion I spoke of happened ages on ages ago, when thiswhole mountain range was being fashioned," said Key with a laugh.
"Well, this yer earthquake was ten years ago, just after I came. Ireckon I oughter remember it. It was a queer sort o' day in the fall,dry and hot as if thar might hev bin a fire in the woods, only tharwasn't no wind. Not a breath of air anywhar. The leaves of them aldershung straight as a plumb-line. Except for that thar stream and thatthar wheel, nuthin' moved. Thar wasn't a bird on the wing over thatcanyon; thar wasn't a squirrel skirmishin' in the hull wood; even thelizards in the rocks stiffened like stone Chinese idols. It keptgettin' quieter and quieter, ontil I walked out on that ledge and feltas if I'd have to give a yell just to hear my own voice. Thar was athin veil over everything, and betwixt and between everything, and thesun was rooted in the middle of it as if it couldn't move neither.Everythin' seemed to be waitin', waitin', waitin'. Then all of a suddinsuthin' seemed to give somewhar! Suthin' fetched away with a queer sortof rumblin', as if the peg had slipped outer creation. I looked up andkalkilated to see half a dozen of them boulders come, lickity switch,down the grade. But, darn my skin, if one of 'em stirred! and yet whileI was looking, the whole face o' that bluff bowed over softly, as ifsaying 'Good-by,' and got clean away somewhar before I knowed it. Why,you see that pile agin the side o' the canyon! Well, a thousand feetunder that there's trees, three hundred feet high, still upright andstandin'. You know how them pines over on that far mountain-side alwaysseem to be climbin' up, up, up, over each other's heads to the verytop? Well, Mr. Key, I SAW 'EM climbin'! And when I pulled myselftogether and got back to the mill, everything was quiet; and, byG—d, so was the mill- wheel, and there wasn't two inches of waterin the river!"
"And what did you think of it?" said Key, interested in spite of hisimpatience.
"I thought, Mr. Key— No! I mustn't say I thought, for I knowedit. I knowed that suthin' had happened to my wife!"
Key did not smile, but even felt a faint superstitious thrill as hegazed at him. After a pause Collinson resumed: "I heard a month afterthat she had died about that time o' yaller fever in Texas with theparty she was comin' with. Her folks wrote that they died like flies,and wuz all buried together, unbeknownst and promiscuous, and tharwasn't no remains. She slipped away from me like that bluff over thatcanyon, and that was the end of it."
"But she might have escaped," said Key quickly, forgetting himselfin his eagerness.
But Collinson only shook his head. "Then she'd have been here," hesaid gravely.
Key moved towards the door still abstractedly, held out his hand,shook that of his companion warmly, and then, saddling his horsehimself, departed. A sense of disappointment—in which a vaguedissatisfaction with himself was mingled—was all that had come ofhis interview. He took himself severely to task for following hisromantic quest so far. It was unworthy of the president of the SylvanSilver Hollow Company, and he was not quite sure but that hisconfidences with Collinson might have imperiled even the interests ofthe company. To atone for this momentary aberration, and correct hisdismal fancies, he resolved to attend to some business at Skinner'sbefore returning, and branched off on a long detour that wouldintersect the traveled stage-road. But here a singular incidentovertook him. As he wheeled into the turnpike, he heard the tramplinghoof-beats and jingling harness of the oncoming coach behind him. Hehad barely time to draw up against the bank before the six gallopinghorses and swinging vehicle swept heavily by. He had a quick impressionof the heat and steam of sweating horse-hide, the reek of varnish andleather, and the momentary vision of a female face silhouetted againstthe glass window of the coach! But even in that flash of perception herecognized the profile that he had seen at the window of the mysterioushut!
He halted for an instant dazed and bewildered in the dust of thedeparting wheels. Then, as the bulk of the vehicle reappeared, alreadynarrowing in the distance, without a second thought he dashed after it.His disappointment, his self-criticism, his practical resolutions wereforgotten. He had but one idea now—the vision was providential!The clue to the mystery was before him— he MUST follow it!
Yet he had sense enough to realize that the coach would not stop totake up a passenger between stations, and that the next station was theone three miles below Skinner's. It would not be difficult to reachthis by a cut-off in time, and although the vehicle had appeared to becrowded, he could no doubt obtain a seat on top.
His eager curiosity, however, led him to put spurs to his horse, andrange up alongside of the coach as if passing it, while he examined thestranger more closely. Her face was bent listlessly over a book; therewas unmistakably the same profile that he had seen, but the full facewas different in outline and expression. A strange sense ofdisappointment that was almost a revulsion of feeling came over him; helingered, he glanced again; she was certainly a very pretty woman:there was the beautifully rounded chin, the short straight nose, anddelicately curved upper lip, that he had seen in the profile,—andyet—yet it was not the same face he had dreamt of. With an odd,provoking sense of disillusion, he swept ahead of the coach, and againslackened his speed to let it pass. This time the fair unknown raisedher long lashes and gazed suddenly at this persistent horseman at herside, and an odd expression, it seemed to him almost a glance ofrecognition and expectation, came into her dark, languid eyes. Thepupils concentrated upon him with a singular significance, that wasalmost, he even thought, a reply to his glance, and yet it was asutterly unintelligible. A moment later, however, it was explained. Hehad fallen slightly behind in a new confusion of hesitation, wonder,and embarrassment, when from a wooded trail to the right, anotherhorseman suddenly swept into the road before him. He was a powerfullybuilt man, mounted on a thoroughbred horse of a quality far superior tothe ordinary roadster. Without looking at Key he easily ranged upbeside the coach as if to pass it, but Key, with a sudden resolution,put spurs to his own horse and ranged also abreast of him, in time tosee his fair unknown start at the apparition of this second horsemanand unmistakably convey some signal to him,—a signal that toKey's fancy now betrayed some warning of himself. He was the moreconvinced as the stranger, after continuing a few paces ahead of thecoach, allowed it to pass him at a curve of the road, and slackened hispace to permit Key to do the same. Instinctively conscious that thestranger's object was to scrutinize or identify him, he determined totake the initiative, and fixed his eyes upon him as they approached.But the stranger, who wore a loose brown linen duster over clothes thatappeared to be superior in fashion and material, also had part of hisface and head draped by a white silk handkerchief worn under his hat,ostensibly to keep the sun and dust from his head and neck,—andhad the advantage of him. He only caught the flash of a pair ofsteel-gray eyes, as the newcomer, apparently having satisfied himself,gave rein to his spirited steed and easily repassed the coach,disappearing in a cloud of dust before it. But Key had by this timereached the "cut-off," which the stranger, if he intended to follow thecoach, either disdained or was ignorant of, and he urged his horse toits utmost speed. Even with the stranger's advantages it would be aclose race to the station.
Nevertheless, as he dashed on, he was by no means insensible to thesomewhat quixotic nature of his undertaking. If he was right in hissuspicion that a signal had been given by the lady to the stranger, itwas exceedingly probable that he had discovered not only the fairinmate of the robbers' den, but one of the gang itself, or at least aconfederate and ally. Yet far from deterring him, in that ingenioussophistry with which he was apt to treat his romance, he now lookedupon his adventure as a practical pursuit in the interests of law andjustice. It was true that it was said that the band of road agents hadbeen dispersed; it was a fact that there had been no spoliation ofcoach or teams for three weeks; but none of the depredators had everbeen caught, and their booty, which was considerable, was known to bestill intact. It was to the interest of the mine, his partners, and hisworkmen that this clue to a danger which threatened the locality shouldbe followed to the end. As to the lady, in spite of the disappointmentthat still rankled in his breast, he could be magnanimous! She might bethe paramour of the strange horseman, she might be only escaping fromsome hateful companionship by his aid. And yet one thing puzzled him:she was evidently not acquainted with the personality of the activegang, for she had, without doubt, at first mistaken HIM for one ofthem, and after recognizing her real accomplice had communicated hermistake to him.
It was a great relief to him when the rough and tangled "cut-off" atlast broadened and lightened into the turnpike road again, and hebeheld, scarcely a quarter of a mile before him, the dust cloud thatoverhung the coach as it drew up at the lonely wayside station. He wasin time, for he knew that the horses were changed there; but a suddenfear that the fair unknown might alight, or take some other conveyance,made him still spur his jaded steed forward. As he neared the stationhe glanced eagerly around for the other horseman, but he was nowhere tobe seen. He had evidently either abandoned the chase or riddenahead.
It seemed equally a part of what he believed was a providentialintercession, that on arriving at the station he found there was avacant seat inside the coach. It was diagonally opposite that occupiedby the lady, and he was thus enabled to study her face as it was bentover her book, whose pages, however, she scarcely turned. After herfirst casual glance of curiosity at the new passenger, she seemed totake no more notice of him, and Key began to wonder if he had notmistaken her previous interrogating look. Nor was it his onlydisturbing query; he was conscious of the same disappointment now thathe could examine her face more attentively, as in his first cursoryglance. She was certainly handsome; if there was no longer thefreshness of youth, there was still the indefinable charm of the womanof thirty, and with it the delicate curves of matured muliebrity andrepose. There were lines, particularly around the mouth and fringedeyelids, that were deepened as by pain; and the chin, even in itsrounded fullness, had the angle of determination. From what wasvisible, below the brown linen duster that she wore, she appeared to betastefully although not richly dressed.
As the coach at last drove away from the station, a grizzled,farmer-looking man seated beside her uttered a sigh of relief, sopalpable as to attract the general attention. Turning to his fairneighbor with a smile of uncouth but good-humored apology, he said inexplanation:—
"You'll excuse me, miss! I don't know ezactly how YOU'REfeelin',— for judging from your looks and gin'ral gait, you're astranger in these parts,—but ez for ME, I don't mind sayin' thatI never feel ezactly safe from these yer road agents and stage robbersontil arter we pass Skinner's station. All along thet Galloper's Ridgeit's jest tech and go like; the woods is swarmin' with 'em. But oncepast Skinner's, you're all right. They never dare go below that. So efyou don't mind, miss, for it's bein' in your presence, I'll jest pulloff my butes and ease my feet for a spell."
Neither the inconsequence of this singular request, nor the smile itevoked on the faces of the other passengers, seemed to disturb thelady's abstraction. Scarcely lifting her eyes from her book, she boweda grave assent.
"You see, miss," he continued, "and you gents," he added, taking thewhole coach into his confidence, "I've got over forty ounces of cleangold dust in them butes, between the upper and lower sole,— andit's mighty tight packing for my feet. Ye kin heft it," he said, as heremoved one boot and held it up before them. "I put the dust there forsafety—kalkilatin' that while these road gentry allus goes for aman's pockets and his body belt, they never thinks of his butes, orhaven't time to go through 'em." He looked around him with a smile ofself-satisfaction.
The murmur of admiring comment was, however, broken by a burly-bearded miner who sat in the middle seat. "Thet's pretty fair, as faras it goes," he said smilingly, "but I reckon it wouldn't go far ef youstarted to run. I've got a simpler game than that, gentlemen, and ezwe're all friends here, and the danger's over, I don't mind tellin' ye.The first thing these yer road agents do, after they've covered thedriver with their shot guns, is to make the passengers get out and holdup their hands. That, ma'am,"— explanatorily to the lady, whobetrayed only a languid interest,— "is to keep 'em from drawingtheir revolvers. A revolver is the last thing a road agent wants,either in a man's hand or in his holster. So I sez to myself, 'Ef asix-shooter ain't of no account, wet's the use of carryin' it?' So Ijust put my shooting- iron in my valise when I travel, and fill myholster with my gold dust, so! It's a deuced sight heavier than arevolver, but they don't feel its weight, and don't keer to come nighit. And I've been 'held up' twice on t'other side of the Divide thisyear, and I passed free every time!"
The applause that followed this revelation and the exhibition of theholster not only threw the farmer's exploits into the shade, but seemedto excite an emulation among the passengers. Other methods of securingtheir property were freely discussed; but the excitement culminated inthe leaning forward of a passenger who had, up to that moment,maintained a reserve almost equal to the fair unknown. His dress andgeneral appearance were those of a professional man; his voice andmanner corroborated the presumption.
"I don't think, gentlemen," he began with a pleasant smile, "thatany man of us here would like to be called a coward; but in fightingwith an enemy who never attacks, or even appears, except with adeliberately prepared advantage on his side, it is my opinion that aman is not only justified in avoiding an unequal encounter with him,but in circumventing by every means the object of his attack. You haveall been frank in telling your methods. I will be equally so in tellingmine, even if I have perhaps to confess to a little more than you have;for I have not only availed myself of a well-known rule of the robberswho infest these mountains, to exempt all women and children from theirspoliation,— a rule which, of course, they perfectly understandgives them a sentimental consideration with all Californians,—butI have, I confess, also availed myself of the innocent kindness of oneof that charming and justly exempted sex." He paused and bowedcourteously to the fair unknown. "When I entered this coach I had withme a bulky parcel which was manifestly too large for my pockets, yet asevidently too small and too valuable to be intrusted to the ordinaryluggage. Seeing my difficulty, our charming companion opposite, out ofthe very kindness and innocence of her heart, offered to make a placefor it in her satchel, which was not full. I accepted the offerjoyfully. When I state to you, gentlemen, that that package containedvaluable government bonds to a considerable amount, I do so, not toclaim your praise for any originality of my own, but to make thispublic avowal to our fair fellow passenger for securing to me this mostperfect security and immunity from the road agent that has been yetrecorded."
With his eyes riveted on the lady's face, Key saw a faint color riseto her otherwise impassive face, which might have been called out bythe enthusiastic praise that followed the lawyer's confession. But hewas painfully conscious of what now seemed to him a monstroussituation! Here was, he believed, the actual accomplice of the roadagents calmly receiving the complacent and puerile confessions of themen who were seeking to outwit them. Could he, in ordinary justice tothem, to himself, or the mission he conceived he was pursuing, refrainfrom exposing her, or warning them privately? But was he certain? Was avague remembrance of a profile momentarily seen—and, as he musteven now admit, inconsistent with the full face he was gazingat—sufficient for such an accusation? More than that, was theprotection she had apparently afforded the lawyer consistent with thefunction of an accomplice!
"Then if the danger's over," said the lady gently, reaching down todraw her satchel from under the seat, "I suppose I may return it toyou."
"By no means! Don't trouble yourself! Pray allow me to still remainyour debtor,—at least as far as the next station," said thelawyer gallantly.
The lady uttered a languid sigh, sank back in her seat, and calmlysettled herself to the perusal of her book. Key felt his cheeksbeginning to burn with the embarrassment and shame of his evidentmisconception. And here he was on his way to Marysville, to follow awoman for whom he felt he no longer cared, and for whose pursuit he hadno longer the excuse of justice.
"Then I understand that you have twice seen these road agents," saidthe professional man, turning to the miner. "Of course, you could beable to identify them?"
"Nary a man! You see they're all masked, and only one of 'em everspeaks."
"The leader or chief?"
"No, the orator."
"The orator?" repeated the professional man in amazement.
"Well, you see, I call him the orator, for he's mighty glib with histongue, and reels off all he has to say like as if he had it by heart.He's mighty rough on you, too, sometimes, for all his high- tonedstyle. Ef he thinks a man is hidin' anything he jest scalps him withhis tongue, and blamed if I don't think he likes the chance of doin'it. He's got a regular set speech, and he's bound to go through it all,even if he makes everything wait, and runs the risk of capture. Yet heain't the chief,—and even I've heard folks say ain't got anyresponsibility if he is took, for he don't tech anybody or anybody'smoney, and couldn't be prosecuted. I reckon he's some sort of abroken-down lawyer—d'ye see?"
"Not much of a lawyer, I imagine," said the professional man,smiling, "for he'll find himself quite mistaken as to his share ofresponsibility. But it's a rather clever way of concealing the identityof the real leader."
"It's the smartest gang that was ever started in the Sierras. Theyfooled the sheriff of Sierra the other day. They gave him a sort ofidea that they had a kind of hidin'-place in the woods whar they metand kept their booty, and, by jinks! he goes down thar with his hullposse,—just spilin' for a fight,—and only lights upon agang of innocent greenhorns, who were boring for silver on the veryspot where he allowed the robbers had their den! He ain't held up hishead since."
Key cast a quick glance at the lady to see the effect of thisrevelation. But her face—if the same profile he had seen at thewindow—betrayed neither concern nor curiosity. He let his eyesdrop to the smart boot that peeped from below her gown, and the thoughtof his trying to identify it with the slipper he had picked up seemedto him as ridiculous as his other misconceptions. He sank back gloomilyin his seat; by degrees the fatigue and excitement of the day began tomercifully benumb his senses; twilight had fallen and the talk hadceased. The lady had allowed her book to drop in her lap as thedarkness gathered, and had closed her eyes; he closed his own, andslipped away presently into a dream, in which he saw the profile againas he had seen it in the darkness of the hollow, only that this time itchanged to a full face, unlike the lady's or any one he had ever seen.Then the window seemed to open with a rattle, and he again felt thecool odors of the forest; but he awoke to find that the lady had onlyopened her window for a breath of fresh air. It was nearly eight o'clock; it would be an hour yet before the coach stopped at the nextstation for supper; the passengers were drowsily nodding; he closed hiseyes and fell into a deeper sleep, from which he awoke with astart.
The coach had stopped!
"It can't be Three Pines yet," said a passenger's voice, in whichthe laziness of sleep still lingered, "or else we've snoozed over fivemile. I don't see no lights; wot are we stoppin' for?" The otherpassengers struggled to an upright position. One nearest the windowopened it; its place was instantly occupied by the double muzzle of ashot-gun! No one moved. In the awestricken silence the voice of thedriver rose in drawling protestation.
"It ain't no business o' mine, but it sorter strikes me that youchaps are a-playin' it just a little too fine this time! It ain't threemiles from Three Pine Station and forty men. Of course, that's yourlookout,—not mine!"
The audacity of the thing had evidently struck even the usuallytaciturn and phlegmatic driver into his first expostulation onrecord.
"Your thoughtful consideration does you great credit," said a voicefrom the darkness, "and shall be properly presented to our manager; butat the same time we wish it understood that we do not hesitate to takeany risks in strict attention to our business and our clients. In themean time you will expedite matters, and give your passengers a chanceto get an early tea at Three Pines, by handing down that treasure-boxand mail-pouch. Be careful in handling that blunderbuss you keep besideit; the last time it unfortunately went off, and I regret to sayslightly wounded one of your passengers. Accidents of this kind,interfering, as they do, with the harmony and pleasure of our chancemeetings, cannot be too highly deplored."
"By gosh!" ejaculated an outside passenger in an audiblewhisper.
"Thank you, sir," said the voice quietly; "but as I overlooked you,I will trouble you now to descend with the others."
The voice moved nearer; and, by the light of a flaming bull's-eyecast upon the coach, it could be seen to come from a stout, medium-sized man with a black mask, which, however, showed half of a smooth,beardless face, and an affable yet satirical mouth. The speaker clearedhis throat with the slight preparatory cough of the practiced orator,and, approaching the window, to Key's intense surprise, actually beganin the identical professional and rhetorical style previously indicatedby the miner.
"Circumstances over which we have no control, gentlemen, compel usto oblige you to alight, stand in a row on one side, and hold up yourhands. You will find the attitude not unpleasant after your crampedposition in the coach, while the change from its confined air to thewholesome night-breeze of the Sierras cannot but prove salutary andrefreshing. It will also enable us to relieve you of such so-calledvaluables and treasures in the way of gold dust and coin, which Iregret to say too often are misapplied in careless hands, and which theteachings of the highest morality distinctly denominate as the root ofall evil! I need not inform you, gentlemen, as business men, thatpromptitude and celerity of compliance will insure dispatch, andshorten an interview which has been sometimes needlessly, and, I regretto say, painfully protracted."
He drew back deliberately with the same monotonous precision ofhabit, and disclosed the muzzles of his confederates' weapons stillleveled at the passengers. In spite of their astonishment, indignation,and discomfiture, his practiced effrontery and deliberate displayappeared in some way to touch their humorous sense, and one or twosmiled hysterically, as they rose and hesitatingly filed out of thevehicle. It is possible, however, that the leveled shot-gunscontributed more or less directly to this result.
Two masks began to search the passengers under the combined focus ofthe bull's-eyes, the shining gun-barrels, and a running but stillcarefully prepared commentary from the spokesman. "It is to beregretted that business men, instead of intrusting their property tothe custody of the regularly constituted express agent, still continueto secrete it on their persons; a custom that, without enhancing itssecurity, is not only an injustice to the express company, but a greatdetriment to dispatch. We also wish to point out that while we do notas a rule interfere with the possession of articles of ordinarypersonal use or adornment, such as simple jewelry or watches, wereserve our right to restrict by confiscation the vulgarity andunmanliness of diamonds and enormous fob chains."
The act of spoliation was apparently complete, yet it was evidentthat the orator was restraining himself for a more effective climax.Clearing his throat again and stepping before the impatient but stillmystified file of passengers, he reviewed them gravely. Then in aperfectly pitched tone of mingled pain and apology, he saidslowly:—
"It would seem that, from no wish of our own, we are obliged on thispresent occasion to suspend one or two of our usual rules. We are notin the habit of interfering with the wearing apparel of our esteemedclients; but in the interests of ordinary humanity we are obliged toremove the boots of the gentleman on the extreme left, which evidentlygive him great pain and impede his locomotion. We also seldom deviatefrom our rule of obliging our clients to hold up their hands duringthis examination; but we gladly make an exception in favor of thegentleman next to him, and permit him to hand us the altogether tooheavily weighted holster which presses upon his hip. Gentlemen," saidthe orator, slightly raising his voice, with a deprecating gesture,"you need not be alarmed! The indignant movement of our friend, justnow, was not to draw his revolver,—for it isn't there!" He pausedwhile his companions speedily removed the farmer's boots and theminer's holster, and with a still more apologetic air approached thecoach, where only the lady remained erect and rigid in her corner. "Andnow," he said with simulated hesitation, "we come to the last and to usthe most painful suspension of our rules. On these very rare occasions,when we have been honored with the presence of the fair sex, it hasbeen our invariable custom not only to leave them in the undisturbedpossession of their property, but even of their privacy as well. It iswith deep regret that on this occasion we are obliged to make anexception. For in the present instance, the lady, out of the gentlenessof her heart and the politeness of her sex, has burdened herself notonly with the weight but the responsibility of a package forced uponher by one of the passengers. We feel, and we believe, gentlemen, thatmost of you will agree with us, that so scandalous and unmanly anattempt to evade our rules and violate the sanctity of the lady'simmunity will never be permitted. For your own sake, madam, we arecompelled to ask you for the satchel under your seat. It will bereturned to you when the package is removed."
"One moment," said the professional man indignantly, "there is a manhere whom you have spared,—a man who lately joined us. Is thatman," pointing to the astonished Key, "one of your confederates?"
"That man," returned the spokesman with a laugh, "is the owner ofthe Sylvan Hollow Mine. We have spared him because we owe him someconsideration for having been turned out of his house at the dead ofnight while the sheriff of Sierra was seeking us." He stopped, and thenin an entirely different voice, and in a totally changed manner, saidroughly, "Tumble in there, all of you, quick! And you, sir" (toKey),—"I'd advise you to ride outside. Now, driver, raise so muchas a rein or a whiplash until you hear the signal— and by God!you'll know what next." He stepped back, and seemed to be instantlyswallowed up in the darkness; but the light of a solitarybull's-eye—the holder himself invisible—still showed themuzzles of the guns covering the driver. There was a momentary stir ofvoices within the closed coach, but an angry roar of "Silence!" fromthe darkness hushed it.
The moments crept slowly by; all now were breathless. Then a clearwhistle rang from the distance, the light suddenly was extinguished,the leveled muzzles vanished with it, the driver's lash fellsimultaneously on the backs of his horses, and the coach leapedforward.
The jolt nearly threw Key from the top, but a moment later it wasstill more difficult to keep his seat in the headlong fury of theirprogress. Again and again the lash descended upon the maddened horses,until the whole coach seemed to leap, bound, and swerve with everystroke. Cries of protest and even distress began to come from theinterior, but the driver heeded it not. A window was suddenly let down;the voice of the professional man saying, "What's the matter? We're notfollowed. You are imperiling our lives by this speed," was answeredonly by, "Will some of ye throttle that d—d fool?" from thedriver, and the renewed fall of the lash. The wayside trees appeared asolid plateau before them, opened, danced at their side, closed upagain behind them,—but still they sped along. Rushing down gradeswith the speed of an avalanche, they ascended again without drawingrein, and as if by sheer momentum; for the heavy vehicle now seemed tohave a diabolical energy of its own. It ground scattered rocks topowder with its crushing wheels, it swayed heavily on ticklish corners,recovering itself with the resistless forward propulsion of thestraining teams, until the lights of Three Pine Station began toglitter through the trees. Then a succession of yells broke from thedriver, so strong and dominant that they seemed to outstrip even thespeed of the unabated cattle. Lesser lights were presently seen runningto and fro, and on the outermost fringe of the settlement the stagepulled up before a crowd of wondering faces, and the driver spoke.
"We've been held up on the open road, by G—d, not THREE MILESfrom whar ye men are sittin' here yawpin'! If thar's a man among yethat hasn't got the soul of a skunk, he'll foller and close in upon 'embefore they have a chance to get into the brush." Having thus relievedhimself of his duty as an enforced noncombatant, and allowed allfurther responsibility to devolve upon his recreant fellow employees,he relapsed into his usual taciturnity, and drove a trifle lessrecklessly to the station, where he grimly set down his bruised anddiscomfited passengers. As Key mingled with them, he could not helpperceiving that neither the late "orator's" explanation of hisexemption from their fate, nor the driver's surly corroboration of hisrespectability, had pacified them. For a time this amused him,particularly as he could not help remembering that he first appeared tothem beside the mysterious horseman who some one thought had beenidentified as one of the masks. But he was not a little piqued to findthat the fair unknown appeared to participate in their feelings, andhis first civility to her met with a chilling response. Even then, inthe general disillusion of his romance regarding her, this would havebeen only a momentary annoyance; but it strangely revived all hisprevious suspicions, and set him to thinking. Was the singular sagacitydisplayed by the orator in his search purely intuitive? Could any onehave disclosed to him the secret of the passengers' hoards? Was itpossible for HER while sitting alone in the coach to have communicatedwith the band? Suddenly the remembrance flashed across him of heropening the window for fresh air! She could have easily then droppedsome signal. If this were so, and she really was the culprit, it wasquite natural for her own safety that she should encourage thepassengers in the absurd suspicion of himself! His dying interestrevived; a few moments ago he had half resolved to abandon his questand turn back at Three Pines. Now he determined to follow her to theend. But he did not indulge in any further sophistry regarding hisduty; yet, in a new sense of honor, he did not dream of retaliatingupon her by communicating his suspicions to his fellow passengers. Whenthe coach started again, he took his seat on the top, and remainedthere until they reached Jamestown in the early evening. Here a numberof his despoiled companions were obliged to wait, to communicate withtheir friends. Happily, the exemption that had made them indignantenabled him to continue his journey with a full purse. But he wascontent with a modest surveillance of the lady from the top of thecoach.
On arriving at Stockton this surveillance became less easy. It wasthe terminus of the stage-route, and the divergence of others by boatand rail. If he were lucky enough to discover which one the lady took,his presence now would be more marked, and might excite her suspicion.But here a circumstance, which he also believed to be providential,determined him. As the luggage was being removed from the top of thecoach, he overheard the agent tell the expressman to check the "lady's"trunk to San Luis. Key was seized with an idea which seemed to solvethe difficulty, although it involved a risk of losing the clueentirely. There were two routes to San Luis, one was by stage, anddirect, though slower; the other by steamboat and rail, via SanFrancisco. If he took the boat, there was less danger of herdiscovering him, even if she chose the same conveyance; if she took thedirect stage,—and he trusted to a woman's avoidance of the hurryof change and transshipment for that choice,—he would stillarrive at San Luis, via San Francisco, an hour before her. He resolvedto take the boat; a careful scrutiny from a stateroom window of thearriving passengers on the gangplank satisfied him that she hadpreferred the stage. There was still the chance that in losing sight ofher she might escape him, but the risk seemed small. And a triflingcircumstance had almost unconsciously influenced him—after hisromantic and superstitious fashion—as to this final step.
He had been singularly moved when he heard that San Luis was thelady's probable destination. It did not seem to bear any relation tothe mountain wilderness and the wild life she had just quitted; it wasapparently the most antipathic, incongruous, and inconsistent refugeshe could have taken. It offered no opportunity for the disposal ofbooty, or for communication with the gang. It was less secure than acrowded town. An old Spanish mission and monastery college in a sleepypastoral plain,—it had even retained its old-world flavor amidstAmerican improvements and social revolution. He knew it well. From thequaint college cloisters, where the only reposeful years of hisadventurous youth had been spent, to the long Alameda, or doubleavenues of ancient trees, which connected it with the convent of SantaLuisa, and some of his youthful "devotions,"—it had been thenursery of his romance. He was amused at what seemed to be the irony offate, in now linking it with this folly of his maturer manhood; and yethe was uneasily conscious of being more seriously affected by it. Andit was with a greater anxiety than this adventure had ever yet cost himthat he at last arrived at the San Jose hotel, and from a balconycorner awaited the coming of the coach. His heart beat rapidly as itapproached. She was there! But at her side, as she descended from thecoach, was the mysterious horseman of the Sierra road. Key could notmistake the well-built figure, whatever doubt there had been about thefeatures, which had been so carefully concealed. With the astonishmentof this rediscovery, there flashed across him again the fatefulness ofthe inspiration which had decided him not to go in the coach. Hispresence there would have no doubt warned the stranger, and so estoppedthis convincing denouement. It was quite possible that her companion,by relays of horses and the advantage of bridle cut-offs, could haveeasily followed the Three Pine coach and joined her at Stockton. Butfor what purpose? The lady's trunk, which had not been disturbed duringthe first part of the journey, and had been forwarded at Stocktonuntouched before Key's eyes, could not have contained booty to bedisposed of in this forgotten old town.
The register of the hotel bore simply the name of "Mrs. Barker," ofStockton, but no record of her companion, who seemed to havedisappeared as mysteriously as he came. That she occupied asitting-room on the same floor as his own—in which she wasapparently secluded during the rest of the day—was all he knew.Nobody else seemed to know her. Key felt an odd hesitation, that mighthave been the result of some vague fear of implicating her prematurely,in making any marked inquiry, or imperiling his secret by the bribedespionage of servants. Once when he was passing her door he heard thesounds of laughter,—albeit innocent and heart- free,—whichseemed so inconsistent with the gravity of the situation and his ownthoughts that he was strangely shocked. But he was still more disturbedby a later occurrence. In his watchfulness of the movements of hisneighbor he had been equally careful of his own, and had not onlyrefrained from registering his name, but had enjoined secrecy upon thelandlord, whom he knew. Yet the next morning after his arrival, theporter not answering his bell promptly enough, he so far forgot himselfas to walk to the staircase, which was near the lady's room, and callto the employee over the balustrade. As he was still leaning over therailing, the faint creak of a door, and a singular magneticconsciousness of being overlooked, caused him to turn slowly, but onlyin time to hear the rustle of a withdrawing skirt as the door wasquickly closed. In an instant he felt the full force of his foolishheedlessness, but it was too late. Had the mysterious fugitiverecognized him? Perhaps not; their eyes had not met, and his face hadbeen turned away.
He varied his espionage by subterfuges, which his knowledge of theold town made easy. He watched the door of the hotel, himself unseen,from the windows of a billiard saloon opposite, which he had frequentedin former days. Yet he was surprised the same afternoon to see her,from his coigne of vantage, reentering the hotel, where he was sure hehad left her a few moments ago. Had she gone out by some otherexit,—or had she been disguised? But on entering his room thatevening he was confounded by an incident that seemed to him asconvincing of her identity as it was audacious. Lying on his pillowwere a few dead leaves of an odorous mountain fern, known only to theSierras. They were tied together by a narrow blue ribbon, and hadevidently been intended to attract his attention. As he took them inhis hand, the distinguishing subtle aroma of the little sylvan hollowin the hills came to him like a memory and a revelation! He summonedthe chambermaid; she knew nothing of them, or indeed of any one who hadentered his room. He walked cautiously into the hall; the lady'ssitting-room door was open, the room was empty. "The occupant," saidthe chambermaid, "had left that afternoon." He held the proof of heridentity in his hand, but she herself had vanished! That she hadrecognized him there was now no doubt: had she divined the real objectof his quest, or had she accepted it as a mere sentimental gallantry atthe moment when she knew it was hopeless, and she herself was perfectlysafe from pursuit? In either event he had been duped. He did not knowwhether to be piqued, angry,— or relieved of his irresolutequest.
Nevertheless, he spent the rest of the twilight and the earlyevening in fruitlessly wandering through the one long thoroughfare ofthe town, until it merged into the bosky Alameda, or spacious grove,that connected it with Santa Luisa. By degrees his chagrin anddisappointment were forgotten in the memories of the past, evoked bythe familiar pathway. The moon was slowly riding overhead, andsilvering the carriage-way between the straight ebony lines of trees,while the footpaths were diapered with black and white checkers. Thefaint tinkling of a tram-car bell in the distance apprised him of oneof the few innovations of the past. The car was approaching him,overtook him, and was passing, with its faintly illuminated windows,when, glancing carelessly up, he beheld at one of them the profile ofthe face which he had just thought he had lost forever!
He stopped for an instant, not in indecision this time, but in agrim resolution to let no chance escape him now. The car was goingslowly; it was easy to board it now, but again the tinkle of the bellindicated that it was stopping at the corner of a road beyond. Hechecked his pace,—a lady alighted,—it was she! She turnedinto the cross-street, darkened with the shadows of some low suburbantenement houses, and he boldly followed. He was fully determined tofind out her secret, and even, if necessary, to accost her for thatpurpose. He was perfectly aware what he was doing, and all its risksand penalties; he knew the audacity of such an introduction, but hefelt in his left-hand pocket for the sprig of fern which was an excusefor it; he knew the danger of following a possible confidante ofdesperadoes, but he felt in his right-hand pocket for the derringerthat was equal to it. They were both there; he was ready.
He was nearing the convent and the oldest and most ruinous part ofthe town. He did not disguise from himself the gloomy significance ofthis; even in the old days the crumbling adobe buildings that abuttedon the old garden wall of the convent were the haunts of lawlessMexicans and vagabond peons. As the roadway began to be rough anduneven, and the gaunt outlines of the sagging roofs of tiles stood outagainst the sky above the lurking shadows of ruined doorways, he wasprepared for the worst. As the crumbling but still massive walls of theconvent garden loomed ahead, the tall, graceful, black-gowned figure hewas following presently turned into the shadow of the wall itself. Hequickened his pace, lest it should again escape him. Suddenly itstopped, and remained motionless. He stopped, too. At the same momentit vanished!
He ran quickly forward to where it had stood, and found himselfbefore a large iron gate, with a smaller one in the centre, that hadjust clanged to on its rusty hinges. He rubbed his eyes!—theplace, the gate, the wall, were all strangely familiar! Then he steppedback into the roadway, and looked at it again. He was not mistaken.
He was standing before the porter's lodge of the Convent of theSacred Heart.
The day following the great stagecoach robbery found the patientproprietor of Collinson's Mill calm and untroubled in his usualseclusion. The news that had thrilled the length and breadth ofGalloper's Ridge had not touched the leafy banks of the dried-up river;the hue and cry had followed the stage-road, and no courier had deemedit worth his while to diverge as far as the rocky ridge which formedthe only pathway to the mill. That day Collinson's solitude had beenunbroken even by the haggard emigrant from the valley, with his oldmonotonous story of hardship and privation. The birds had flown nearerto the old mill, as if emboldened by the unwonted quiet. That morningthere had been the half human imprint of a bear's foot in the oozebeside the mill-wheel; and coming home with his scant stock from thewoodland pasture, he had found a golden squirrel—a beautiful,airy embodiment of the brown woods itself—calmly seated on hisbar-counter, with a biscuit between its baby hands. He was full of hischaracteristic reveries and abstractions that afternoon; falling intothem even at his wood- pile, leaning on his axe—so still that anemerald-throated lizard, who had slid upon the log, went to sleep underthe forgotten stroke.
But at nightfall the wind arose,—at first as a distant murmuralong the hillside, that died away before it reached the rocky ledge;then it rocked the tops of the tall redwoods behind the mill, but leftthe mill and the dried leaves that lay in the river- bed undisturbed.Then the murmur was prolonged, until it became the continuous troubleof some far-off sea, and at last the wind possessed the ledge itself;driving the smoke down the stumpy chimney of the mill, rattling thesun-warped shingles on the roof, stirring the inside rafters with coolbreaths, and singing over the rough projections of the outside eaves.At nine o'clock he rolled himself up in his blankets before the fire,as was his wont, and fell asleep.
It was past midnight when he was awakened by the familiar clatter ofboulders down the grade, the usual simulation of a wild rush fromwithout that encompassed the whole mill, even to that heavy impactagainst the door, which he had heard once before. In this he recognizedmerely the ordinary phenomena of his experience, and only turned overto sleep again. But this time the door rudely fell in upon him, and afigure strode over his prostrate body, with a gun leveled at hishead.
He sprang sideways for his own weapon, which stood by the hearth. Inanother second that action would have been his last, and the solitudeof Seth Collinson might have remained henceforward unbroken by anymortal. But the gun of the first figure was knocked sharply upward by asecond man, and the one and only shot fired that night sped harmlesslyto the roof. With the report he felt his arms gripped tightly behindhim; through the smoke he saw dimly that the room was filled withmasked and armed men, and in another moment he was pinioned and thrustinto his empty armchair. At a signal three of the men left the room,and he could hear them exploring the other rooms and outhouses. Thenthe two men who had been standing beside him fell back with a certaindisciplined precision, as a smooth-chinned man advanced from the opendoor. Going to the bar, he poured out a glass of whiskey, tossed it offdeliberately, and, standing in front of Collinson, with his shoulderagainst the chimney and his hand resting lightly on his hip, clearedhis throat. Had Collinson been an observant man, he would have noticedthat the two men dropped their eyes and moved their feet with a halfimpatient, perfunctory air of waiting. Had he witnessed thestage-robbery, he would have recognized in the smooth-faced man thepresence of "the orator." But he only gazed at him with his dull,imperturbable patience.
"We regret exceedingly to have to use force to a gentleman in hisown house," began the orator blandly; "but we feel it our duty toprevent a repetition of the unhappy incident which occurred as weentered. We desire that you should answer a few questions, and aredeeply grateful that you are still able to do so,—which seemedextremely improbable a moment or two ago." He paused, coughed, andleaned back against the chimney. "How many men have you here besidesyourself?"
"Nary one," said Collinson.
The interrogator glanced at the other men, who had reentered. Theynodded significantly.
"Good!" he resumed. "You have told the truth—an excellenthabit, and one that expedites business. Now, is there a room in thishouse with a door that locks? Your front door DOESN'T."
"No."
"No cellar nor outhouse?"
"No."
"We regret that; for it will compel us, much against our wishes, tokeep you bound as you are for the present. The matter is simply this:circumstances of a very pressing nature oblige us to occupy this housefor a few days,—possibly for an indefinite period. We respect thesacred rites of hospitality too much to turn you out of it; indeed,nothing could be more distasteful to our feelings than to have you, inyour own person, spread such a disgraceful report through thechivalrous Sierras. We must therefore keep you a closeprisoner,—open, however, to an offer. It is this: we propose togive you five hundred dollars for this property as it stands, providedthat you leave it, and accompany a pack-train which will startto-morrow morning for the lower valley as far as Thompson's Pass,binding yourself to quit the State for three months and keep thismatter a secret. Three of these gentlemen will go with you. They willpoint out to you your duty; their shotguns will apprise you of anydereliction from it. What do you say?"
"Who yer talking to?" said Collinson in a dull voice.
"You remind us," said the orator suavely, "that we have not yet thepleasure of knowing."
"My name's Seth Collinson."
There was a dead silence in the room, and every eye was fixed uponthe two men. The orator's smile slightly stiffened.
"Where from?" he continued blandly.
"Mizzouri."
"A very good place to go back to,—through Thompson's Pass. Butyou haven't answered our proposal."
"I reckon I don't intend to sell this house, or leave it," saidCollinson simply.
"I trust you will not make us regret the fortunate termination ofyour little accident, Mr. Collinson," said the orator with a singularsmile. "May I ask why you object to selling out? Is it the figure?"
"The house isn't mine," said Collinson deliberately. "I built thisyer house for my wife wot I left in Mizzouri. It's hers. I kalkilate tokeep it, and live in it ontil she comes fur it! And when I tell ye thatshe is dead, ye kin reckon just what chance ye have of ever gettin'it."
There was an unmistakable start of sensation in the room, followedby a silence so profound that the moaning of the wind on themountain-side was distinctly heard. A well-built man, with a mask thatscarcely concealed his heavy mustachios, who had been standing with hisback to the orator in half contemptuous patience, faced around suddenlyand made a step forward as if to come between the questioner andquestioned. A voice from the corner ejaculated, "By G—d!"
"Silence," said the orator sharply. Then still more harshly heturned to the others "Pick him up, and stand him outside with a guard;and then clear out, all of you!"
The prisoner was lifted up and carried out; the room was instantlycleared; only the orator and the man who had stepped forward remained.Simultaneously they drew the masks from their faces, and stood lookingat each other. The orator's face was smooth and corrupt; the full,sensual lips wrinkled at the corners with a sardonic humor; the man whoconfronted him appeared to be physically and even morally his superior,albeit gloomy and discontented in expression. He cast a rapid glancearound the room, to assure himself that they were alone; and then,straightening his eyebrows as he backed against the chimney,said:—
"D—d if I like this, Chivers! It's your affair; but it'smighty low-down work for a man!"
"You might have made it easier if you hadn't knocked up Bryce's gun.That would have settled it, though no one guessed that the cur was herhusband," said Chivers hotly.
"If you want it settled THAT WAY, there's still time," returned theother with a slight sneer. "You've only to tell him that you're the manthat ran away with his wife, and you'll have it out together, right onthe ledge at twelve paces. The boys will see you through. In fact," headded, his sneer deepening, "I rather think it's what they'reexpecting."
"Thank you, Mr. Jack Riggs," said Chivers sardonically. "I dare sayit would be more convenient to some people, just before our booty isdivided, if I were drilled through by a blundering shot from thathayseed; or it would seem right to your high-toned chivalry if adead-shot as I am knocked over a man who may have never fired arevolver before; but I don't exactly see it in that light, either as aman or as your equal partner. I don't think you quite understand me, mydear Jack. If you don't value the only man who is identified in allCalifornia as the leader of this gang (the man whose style and addresshas made it popular—yes, POPULAR, by G—d!—to everyman, woman, and child who has heard of him; whose sayings and doingsare quoted by the newspapers; whom people run risks to see; who has gotthe sympathy of the crowd, so that judges hesitate to issue warrantsand constables to serve them),—if YOU don't see the use of such aman, I do. Why, there's a column and a half in the 'Sacramento Union'about our last job, calling me the 'Claude Duval' of the Sierras, andspeaking of my courtesy to a lady! A LADY!—HIS wife, byG—d! our confederate! My dear Jack, you not only don't knowbusiness values, but, 'pon my soul, you don't seem to understand humor!Ha, ha!"
For all his cynical levity, for all his affected exaggeration, therewas the ring of an unmistakable and even pitiable vanity in his voice,and a self-consciousness that suffused his broad cheeks and writhed hisfull mouth, but seemed to deepen the frown on Riggs's face.
"You know the woman hates it, and would bolt if shecould,—even from you," said Riggs gloomily. "Think what she mightdo if she knew her husband were here. I tell you she holds our lives inthe hollow of her hand."
"That's your fault, Mr. Jack Riggs; you would bring your sister withher infernal convent innocence and simplicity into our hut in thehollow. She was meek enough before that. But this is sheer nonsense. Ihave no fear of her. The woman don't live who would go back on GodfreyChivers—for a husband! Besides, she went off to see your sisterat the convent at Santa Clara as soon as she passed those bonds off onCharley to get rid of! Think of her traveling with that d—d foollawyer all the way to Stockton, and his bonds (which we had put back inher bag) alongside of them all the time, and he telling her he wasgoing to stop their payment, and giving her the letter to mail forhim!—eh? Well, we'll have time to get rid of her husband beforeshe gets back. If he don't go easy—well"—
"None of that, Chivers, you understand, once for all!" interruptedRiggs peremptorily. "If you cannot see that your making away with thatwoman's husband would damn that boasted reputation you make so much ofand set every man's hand against us, I do, and I won't permit it. It'sa rotten business enough,—our coming on him as we have; and ifthis wasn't the only God-forsaken place where we could divide our stuffwithout danger and get it away off the highroads, I'd pull up stakes atonce."
"Let her stay at the convent, then, and be d—d to her," saidChivers roughly. "She'll be glad enough to be with your sister again;and there's no fear of her being touched there."
"But I want to put an end to that, too," returned Riggs sharply. "Ido not choose to have my sister any longer implicated with OURconfederate or YOUR mistress. No more of that—you understandme?"
The two men had been standing side by side, leaning against thechimney. Chivers now faced his companion, his full lips wreathed intoan evil smile.
"I think I understand you, Mr. Jack Riggs, or—I beg yourpardon— Rivers, or whatever your real name may be," he beganslowly. "Sadie Collinson, the mistress of Judge Godfrey Chivers,formerly of Kentucky, was good enough company for you the day youdropped down upon us in our little house in the hollow of Galloper'sRidge. We were living quite an idyllic, pastoral life there, weren'twe?— she and me; hidden from the censorious eye of societyand— Collinson, obeying only the voice of Nature and the littlebirds. It was a happy time," he went on with a grimly affected sigh,disregarding his companion's impatient gesture. "You were young then,waging YOUR fight against society, and fresh—uncommonly fresh, Imay say—from your first exploit. And a very stupid, clumsy,awkward exploit, too, Mr. Riggs, if you will pardon my freedom. Youwanted money, and you had an ugly temper, and you had lost both to agambler; so you stopped the coach to rob him, and had to kill two mento get back your paltry thousand dollars, after frightening a wholecoach-load of passengers, and letting Wells, Fargo, and Co.'streasure-box with fifty thousand dollars in it slide. It was a stupid,a blundering, a CRUEL act, Mr. Riggs, and I think I told you so at thetime. It was a waste of energy and material, and made you, not a hero,but a stupid outcast! I think I proved this to you, and showed you howit might have been done."
"Dry up on that," interrupted Riggs impatiently. "You offered tobecome my partner, and you did."
"Pardon me. Observe, my impetuous friend, that my contention is thatyou—YOU—poisoned our blameless Eden in the hollow; that YOUwere our serpent, and that this Sadie Collinson, over whom you havebecome so fastidious, whom you knew as my mistress, was obliged tobecome our confederate. You did not object to her when we formed ourgang, and her house became our hiding-place and refuge. You tookadvantage of her woman's wit and fine address in disposing of ourbooty; you availed yourself, with the rest, of the secrets she gatheredas MY mistress, just as you were willing to profit by the superioraddress of her paramour—your humble servant—when your ownface was known to the sheriff, and your old methods pronounced brutaland vulgar. Excuse me, but I must insist upon THIS, and that youdropped down upon me and Sadie Collinson exactly as you have droppeddown here upon her husband."
"Enough of this!" said Riggs angrily. "I admit the woman is part andparcel of the gang, and gets her share,—or you get it for her,"he added sneeringly; "but that doesn't permit her to mix herself withmy family affairs."
"Pardon me again," interrupted Chivers softly. "Your memory, my dearRiggs, is absurdly defective. We knew that you had a young sister inthe mountains, from whom you discreetly wished to conceal your realposition. We respected, and I trust shall always respect, your noblereticence. But do you remember the night you were taking her to schoolat Santa Clara,—two nights before the fire,—when you wererecognized on the road near Skinner's, and had to fly with her for yourlife, and brought her to us,—your two dear old friends, 'Mr. andMrs. Barker of Chicago,' who had a pastoral home in the forest? Youremember how we took her in,— yes, doubly took her in,—andkept your secret from her? And do you remember how this woman (thismistress of MINE and OUR confederate), while we were away, saved herfrom the fire on our only horse, caught the stage-coach, and broughther to the convent?"
Riggs walked towards the window, turned, and coming back, held outhis hand. "Yes, she did it; and I thanked her, as I thank you." Hestopped and hesitated, as the other took his hand. "But, blank it all,Chivers, don't you see that Alice is a young girl, and this womanis—you know what I mean. Somebody might recognize HER, and thatwould be worse for Alice than even if it were known what Alice'sBROTHER was. G—d! if these two things were put together, the girlwould be ruined forever."
"Jack," said Chivers suddenly, "you want this woman out of the way.Well—dash it all!—she nearly separated us, and I'll befrank with you as between man and man. I'll give her up! There arewomen enough in the world, and hang it, we're partners, after all!"
"Then you abandon her?" said Riggs slowly, his eyes fixed on hiscompanion.
"Yes. She's getting a little too maundering lately. It will be aticklish job to manage, for she knows too much; but it will be done.There's my hand on it."
Riggs not only took no notice of the proffered hand, but his formerlook of discontent came back with an ill-concealed addition of loathingand contempt.
"We'll drop that now," he said shortly; "we've talked here alonelong enough already. The men are waiting for us." He turned on his heelinto the inner room. Chivers remained standing by the chimney until hisstiffened smile gave way under the working of his writhing lips; thenhe turned to the bar, poured out and swallowed another glass of whiskeyat a single gulp, and followed his partner with half-closed lids thatscarcely veiled his ominous eyes.
The men, with the exception of the sentinels stationed on the rockyledge and the one who was guarding the unfortunate Collinson, weredrinking and gambling away their perspective gains around a small pileof portmanteaus and saddle-bags, heaped in the centre of the room. Theycontained the results of their last successes, but one pair ofsaddle-bags bore the mildewed appearance of having been cached, orburied, some time before. Most of their treasure was in packages ofgold dust; and from the conversation that ensued, it appeared that,owing to the difficulties of disposing of it in the mountain towns, theplan was to convey it by ordinary pack mule to the unfrequented valley,and thence by an emigrant wagon, on the old emigrant trail, to thesouthern counties, where it could be no longer traced. Since the recentrobberies, the local express companies and bankers had refused toreceive it, except the owners were known and identified. There had beenbut one box of coin, which had already been speedily divided up amongthe band. Drafts, bills, bonds, and valuable papers had been usuallyintrusted to one "Charley," who acted as a flying messenger to acorrupt broker in Sacramento, who played the role of the band's"fence." It had been the duty of Chivers to control this delicatebusiness, even as it had been his peculiar function to open all theletters and documents. This he had always lightened by characteristiclevity and sarcastic comments on the private revelations of thecontents. The rough, ill-spelt letter of the miner to his wife,inclosing a draft, or the more sentimental effusion of an emigrantswain to his sweetheart, with the gift of a "specimen," had alwaysreceived due attention at the hands of this elegant humorist. But theoperation was conducted to-night with business severity and silence.The two leaders sat opposite to each other, in what might have appearedto the rest of the band a scarcely veiled surveillance of each other'sactions. When the examination was concluded, and, the more valuableinclosures put aside, the despoiled letters were carried to the fireand heaped upon the coals. Presently the chimney added its roar to themoaning of the distant hillside, a few sparks leaped up and died out inthe midnight air, as if the pathos and sentiment of the unconsciouscorrespondents had exhaled with them.
"That's a d—d foolish thing to do," growled French Pete overhis cards.
"Why?" demanded Chivers sharply.
"Why?—why, it makes a flare in the sky that any scout can see,and a scent for him to follow."
"We're four miles from any traveled road," returned Chiverscontemptuously, "and the man who could see that glare and smell thatsmoke would be on his way here already."
"That reminds me that that chap you've tied up—thatCollinson— allows he wants to see you," continued FrenchPete.
"To see ME!" repeated Chivers. "You mean the Captain?"
"I reckon he means YOU," returned French Pete; "he said the man whotalked so purty."
The men looked at each other with a smile of anticipation, and putdown their cards. Chivers walked towards the door; one or two rose totheir feet as if to follow, but Riggs stopped them peremptorily. "Sitdown," he said roughly; then, as Chivers passed him, he added to him ina lower tone, "Remember."
Slightly squaring his shoulders and opening his coat, to permit arhetorical freedom, which did not, however, prevent him from keepingtouch with the butt of his revolver, Chivers stepped into the open air.Collinson had been moved to the shelter of an overhang of the roof,probably more for the comfort of the guard, who sat cross-legged on theground near him, than for his own. Dismissing the man with a gesture,Chivers straightened himself before his captive.
"We deeply regret that your unfortunate determination, my dear sir,has been the means of depriving US of the pleasure of your company, andYOU of your absolute freedom; but may we cherish the hope that yourdesire to see me may indicate some change in your opinion?"
By the light of the sentry's lantern left upon the ground, Chiverscould see that Collinson's face wore a slightly troubled and evenapologetic expression.
"I've bin thinkin'," said Collinson, raising his eyes to his captorwith a singularly new and shy admiration in them, "mebbee not so muchof WOT you said, ez HOW you said it, and it's kinder bothered me,sittin' here, that I ain't bin actin' to you boys quite on the square.I've said to myself, 'Collinson, thar ain't another house betwixt BaldTop and Skinner's whar them fellows kin get a bite or a drink to helpthemselves, and you ain't offered 'em neither. It ain't no matter whothey are or how they came: whether they came crawling along the roadfrom the valley, or dropped down upon you like them rocks from thegrade; yere they are, and it's your duty, ez long ez you keep this yerhouse for your wife in trust, so to speak, for wanderers.' And I ain'tforgettin' yer ginerel soft style and easy gait with me when you kemhere. It ain't every man as could walk into another man's house arterthe owner of it had grabbed a gun, ez soft-speakin', ez overlookin',and ez perlite ez you. I've acted mighty rough and low-down, and I knowit. And I sent for you to say that you and your folks kin use thishouse and all that's in it ez long ez you're in trouble. I've told youwhy I couldn't sell the house to ye, and why I couldn't leave it. Butye kin use it, and while ye're here, and when you go, Collinson don'ttell nobody. I don't know what ye mean by 'binding myself' to keep yoursecret; when Collinson says a thing he sticks to it, and when he passeshis word with a man, or a man passes his word with him, it don't needno bit of paper."
There was no doubt of its truth. In the grave, upraised eyes of hisprisoner, Chivers saw the certainty that he could trust him, even farmore than he could trust any one within the house he had just quitted.But this very certainty, for all its assurance of safety to himself,filled him, not with remorse, which might have been an evanescentemotion, but with a sudden alarming and terrible consciousness of beingin the presence of a hitherto unknown and immeasurable power! He had nopity for man who trusted him; he had no sense of shame in takingadvantage of it; he even felt an intellectual superiority in this wantof sagacity in his dupe; but he still felt in some way defeated,insulted, shocked, and frightened. At first, like all scoundrels, hehad measured the man by himself; was suspicious and prepared forrivalry; but the grave truthfulness of Collinson's eyes left himhelpless. He was terrified by this unknown factor. The right thatcontends and fights often stimulates its adversary; the right thatyields leaves the victor vanquished. Chivers could even have killedCollinson in his vague discomfiture, but he had a terribleconsciousness that there was something behind him that he could notmake way with. That was why this accomplished rascal felt his flaccidcheeks grow purple and his glib tongue trip before his captive.
But Collinson, more occupied with his own shortcomings, took no noteof this, and Chivers quickly recovered his wits, if not his formerartificiality. "All right," he said quickly, with a hurried glance atthe door behind him. "Now that you think better of it, I'll be frankwith you, and tell you I'm your friend. You understand,—yourfriend. Don't talk much to those men—don't give yourself away tothem;" he laughed this time in absolute natural embarrassment. "Don'ttalk about your wife, and this house, but just say you've made thething up with me,—with ME, you know, and I'll see you through."An idea, as yet vague, that he could turn Collinson's unexpecteddocility to his own purposes, possessed him even in his embarrassment,and he was still more strangely conscious of his inordinate vanitygathering a fearful joy from Collinson's evident admiration. It washeightened by his captive's next words.
"Ef I wasn't tied I'd shake hands with ye on that. You're the kindo' man, Mr. Chivers, that I cottoned to from the first. Ef this housewasn't HERS, I'd a' bin tempted to cotton to yer offer, too, and mebbeemade yer one myself, for it seems to me your style and mine wouldsorter jibe together. But I see you sabe what's in my mind, and makeallowance. WE don't want no bit o' paper to shake hands on that. Yoursecret and your folk's secret is mine, and I don't blab that any morethan I'd blab to them wot you've just told me."
Under a sudden impulse, Chivers leaned forward, and, albeit withsomewhat unsteady hands and an embarrassed will, untied the cords thatheld Collinson in his chair. As the freed man stretched himself to hisfull height, he looked gravely down into the bleared eyes of hiscaptor, and held out his strong right hand. Chivers took it. Whetherthere was some occult power in Collinson's honest grasp, I know not;but there sprang up in Chivers's agile mind the idea that a good way toget rid of Mrs. Collinson was to put her in the way of her husband'sfinding her, and for an instant, in the contemplation of that idea,this supreme rascal absolutely felt an embarrassing glow of virtue.
The astonishment of Preble Key on recognizing the gateway into whichthe mysterious lady had vanished was so great that he was at firstinclined to believe her entry THERE a mere trick of his fancy. That theconfederate of a gang of robbers should be admitted to the austererecesses of the convent, with a celerity that bespoke familiarity, wasincredible. He again glanced up and down the length of the shadowed butstill visible wall. There was no one there. The wall itself containedno break or recess in which one could hide, and this was the onlygateway. The opposite side of the street in the full moonlight staredemptily. No! Unless she were an illusion herself and his whole chase adream, she MUST have entered here.
But the chase was not hopeless. He had at least tracked her to aplace where she could be identified. It was not a hotel, which shecould leave at any moment unobserved. Though he could not follow herand penetrate its seclusion now, he could later—thanks to his oldassociations with the padres of the contiguous college—gain anintroduction to the Lady Superior on some pretext. She was safe therethat night. He turned away with a feeling of relief. The incongruity ofher retreat assumed a more favorable aspect to his hopes. He looked atthe hallowed walls and the slumbering peacefulness of the gnarled oldtrees that hid the convent, and a gentle reminiscence of his youthstole over him. It was not the first time that he had gazed wistfullyupon that chaste refuge where, perhaps, the bright eyes that he hadfollowed in the quaint school procession under the leafy Alameda in theafternoon, were at last closed in gentle slumber. There was the verygrille through which the wicked Conchita—or, was itDolores?—had shot her Parthian glance at the lingering student.And the man of thirty- five, prematurely gray and settled in fortune,smiled as he turned away, and forgot the adventuress of thirty who hadbrought him there.
The next morning he was up betimes and at the college of San Jose.Father Cipriano, a trifle more snuffy and aged, remembered with delighthis old pupil. Ah! it was true, then, that he had become a miningpresident, and that was why his hair was gray; but he trusted that DonPreble had not forgot that this was not all of life, and that fortunebrought great responsibilities and cares. But what was this, then? HeHAD thought of bringing out some of his relations from the States, andplacing a niece in the convent. That was good and wise. Ah, yes. Foreducation in this new country, one must turn to the church. And hewould see the Lady Superior? Ah! that was but the twist of one's fingerand the lifting of a latch to a grave superintendent and a gray headlike that. Of course, he had not forgotten the convent and the youngsenoritas, nor the discipline and the suspended holidays. Ah! it was aspecial grace of our Lady that he, Father Cipriano, had not beenworried into his grave by those foolish muchachos. Yet, when he hadextinguished a snuffy chuckle in his red bandana handkerchief, Key knewthat he would accompany him to the convent that noon.
It was with a slight stirring of shame over his elaborate pretextthat he passed the gate of the Sacred Heart with the good father. Butit is to be feared that he speedily forgot that in the unexpectedinformation that it elicited. The Lady Superior was gracious, and evenenthusiastic. Ah, yes, it was a growing custom of the Americancaballeros—who had no homes, nor yet time to create any—tobring their sisters, wards, and nieces here, and— with adove-like side-glance towards Key—even the young senoritas theywished to fit for their Christian brides! Unlike the caballero, therewere many business men so immersed in their affairs that they could notfind time for a personal examination of the convent,—which was tobe regretted,—but who, trusting to the reputation of the SacredHeart and its good friends, simply sent the young lady there by sometrusted female companion. Notably this was the case of the SenorRivers,—did Don Preble ever know him?—a great capitalist inthe Sierras, whose sweet young sister, a naive, ingenuous creature, wasthe pride of the convent. Of course, it was better that it was so.Discipline and seclusion had to be maintained. The young girl shouldlook upon this as her home. The rules for visitors were necessarilysevere. It was rare indeed—except in a case of urgency, such ashappened last night— that even a lady, unless the parent of ascholar, was admitted to the hospitality of the convent. And this ladywas only the friend of that same sister of the American capitalist,although she was the one who had brought her there. No, she was not arelation. Perhaps Don Preble had heard of a Mrs. Barker,—thefriend of Rivers of the Sierras. It was a queer combination of names.But what will you? The names of Americanos mean nothing. And Don Prebleknows them not. Ah! possibly?—good! The lady would be remembered,being tall, dark, and of fine presence, though sad. A few hours earlierand Don Preble could have judged for himself, for, as it were, shemight have passed through this visitors' room. But she wasgone—departed by the coach. It was from a telegram— thoseheathen contrivances that blurt out things to you, with never anexcuse, nor a smile, nor a kiss of the hand! For her part, she neverlet her scholars receive them, but opened them herself, and translatedthem in a Christian spirit, after due preparation, at her leisure. Andit was this telegram that made the Senora Barker go, or, without doubt,she would have of herself told to the Don Preble, her compatriot of theSierras, how good the convent was for his niece.
Stung by the thought that this woman had again evaded him, anddisconcerted and confused by the scarcely intelligible information hehad acquired, Key could with difficulty maintain his composure. "Thecaballero is tired of his long pasear," said the Lady Superior gently."We will have a glass of wine in the lodge waiting-room." She led theway from the reception room to the outer door, but stopped at the soundof approaching footsteps and rustling muslin along the gravel walk."The second class are going out," she said, as a gentle procession ofwhite frocks, led by two nuns, filed before the gateway. "We will waituntil they have passed. But the senor can see that my children do notlook unhappy."
They certainly looked very cheerful, although they had halted beforethe gateway with a little of the demureness of young people who knowthey are overlooked by authority, and had bumped against each otherwith affected gravity. Somewhat ashamed of his useless deception, andthe guileless simplicity of the good Lady Superior, Key hesitated andbegan: "I am afraid that I am really giving you too much trouble," andsuddenly stopped.
For as his voice broke the demure silence, one of thenearest—a young girl of apparently seventeen—turned towardshim with a quick and an apparently irresistible impulse, and as quicklyturned away again. But in that instant Key caught a glimpse of a facethat might not only have thrilled him in its beauty, its freshness, butin some vague suggestiveness. Yet it was not that which set his pulsesbeating; it was the look of joyous recognition set in the parted lipsand sparkling eyes, the glow of childlike innocent pleasure thatmantled the sweet young face, the frank confusion of suddenly realizedexpectancy and longing. A great truth gripped his throbbing heart, andheld it still. It was the face that he had seen in the hollow!
The movement of the young girl was too marked to escape the eye ofthe Lady Superior, though she had translated it differently. "You mustnot believe our young ladies are all so rude, Don Preble," she saiddryly; "though our dear child has still some of the mountain freedom.And this is the Senor Rivers's sister. But possibly—who knows?"she said gently, yet with a sudden sharpness in her cleareyes,—"perhaps she recognized in your voice a companion of herbrother."
Luckily for Key, the shock had been so sudden and overpowering thathe showed none of the lesser symptoms of agitation or embarrassment. Inthis revelation of a secret, that he now instinctively felt was boundup with his own future happiness, he exhibited none of the signs of adiscovered intriguer or unmasked Lothario. He said quietly and coldly:"I am afraid I have not the pleasure of knowing the young lady, andcertainly have never before addressed her." Yet he scarcely heard hiscompanion's voice, and answered mechanically, seeing only before himthe vision of the girl's bewitching face, in its still more bewitchingconsciousness of his presence. With all that he now knew, or thought heknew, came a strange delicacy of asking further questions, a vague fearof compromising HER, a quick impatience of his present deception; evenhis whole quest of her seemed now to be a profanation, for which hemust ask her forgiveness. He longed to be alone to recover himself.Even the temptation to linger on some pretext, and wait for her returnand another glance from her joyous eyes, was not as strong as hisconviction of the necessity of cooler thought and action. He had methis fate that morning, for good or ill; that was all he knew. As soonas he could decently retire, he thanked the Lady Superior, promised tocommunicate with her later, and taking leave of Father Cipriano, foundhimself again in the street.
Who was she, what was she, and what meant her joyous recognition ofhim? It is to be feared that it was the last question that affected himmost, now that he felt that he must have really loved her from thefirst. Had she really seen him before, and had been as mysteriouslyimpressed as he was? It was not the reflection of a conceited man, forKey had not that kind of vanity, and he had already touched thehumility that is at the base of any genuine passion. But he would notthink of that now. He had established the identity of the other woman,as being her companion in the house in the hollow on that eventfulnight; but it was HER profile that he had seen at the window. Themysterious brother Rivers might have been one of therobbers,—perhaps the one who accompanied Mrs. Barker to San Jose.But it was plain that the young girl had no complicity with the actionsof the gang, whatever might have been her companion's confederation. Inthe prescience of a true lover, he knew that she must have beendeceived and kept in utter ignorance of it. There was no look of it inher lovely, guileless eyes; her very impulsiveness and ingenuousnesswould have long since betrayed the secret. Was it left for him, at thisvery outset of his passion, to be the one to tell her? Could he bear tosee those frank, beautiful eyes dimmed with shame and sorrow? His owngrew moist. Another idea began to haunt him. Would it not be wiser,even more manly, for him—a man over twice her years—toleave her alone with her secret, and so pass out of her innocent younglife as chancefully as he had entered it? But was it altogetherchanceful? Was there not in her innocent happiness in him a recognitionof something in him better than he had dared to think himself? It wasthe last conceit of the humility of love.
He reached his hotel at last, unresolved, perplexed, yet singularlyhappy. The clerk handed him, in passing, a business-looking letter,formally addressed. Without opening it, he took it to his room, andthrowing himself listlessly on a chair by the window again tried tothink. But the atmosphere of his room only recalled to him themysterious gift he had found the day before on his pillow. He felt nowwith a thrill that it must have been from HER. How did she convey itthere? She would not have intrusted it to Mrs. Barker. The idea struckhim now as distastefully as it seemed improbable. Perhaps she had beenhere herself with her companion— the convent sometimes made thatconcession to a relative or well- known friend. He recalled the factthat he had seen Mrs. Barker enter the hotel alone, after the incidentof the opening door, while he was leaning over the balustrade. It wasSHE who was alone THEN, and had recognized his voice; and he had notknown it. She was out again to-day with the procession. A sudden ideastruck him. He glanced quickly at the letter in his hand, and hurriedlyopened it. It contained only three lines, in a large formal hand, butthey sent the swift blood to his cheeks.
"I heard your voice to-day for the third time. I want to hear itagain. I will come at dusk. Do not go out until then."
He sat stupefied. Was it madness, audacity, or a trick? He summonedthe waiter. The letter had been left by a boy from the confectioner'sshop in the next block. He remembered it of old,—a resort for theyoung ladies of the convent. Nothing was easier than conveying a letterin that way. He remembered with a shock of disillusion and disgust thatit was a common device of silly but innocent assignation. Was he to bethe ridiculous accomplice of a schoolgirl's extravagant escapade, orthe deluded victim of some infamous plot of her infamous companion? Hecould not believe either; yet he could not check a certain revulsion offeeling towards her, which only a moment ago he would have believedimpossible.
Yet whatever was her purpose, he must prevent her coming there atany hazard. Her visit would be the culmination of her folly, or thesuccess of any plot. Even while he was fully conscious of the materialeffect of any scandal and exposure to her, even while he was incensedand disillusionized at her unexpected audacity, he was unusuallystirred with the conviction that she was wronging herself, and thatmore than ever she demanded his help and his consideration. Still shemust not come. But how was he to prevent her? It wanted but an hour ofdusk. Even if he could again penetrate the convent on some pretext atthat inaccessible hour for visitors,—twilight,—how could hecommunicate with her? He might intercept her on the way, and persuadeher to return; but she must be kept from entering the hotel.
He seized his hat and rushed downstairs. But here another difficultybeset him. It was easy enough to take the ordinary road to the convent,but would SHE follow that public one in what must be a surreptitiousescape? And might she not have eluded the procession that morning, andeven now be concealed somewhere, waiting for the darkness to make hervisit. He concluded to patrol the block next to the hotel, yet nearenough to intercept her before she reached it, until the hour came. Thetime passed slowly. He loitered before shop windows, or entered andmade purchases, with his eye on the street. The figure of a prettygirl,—and there were many,—the fluttering ribbons on adistant hat, or the flashing of a cambric skirt around the corner senta nervous thrill through him. The reflection of his grave, abstractedface against a shop window, or the announcement of the workings of hisown mine on a bulletin board, in its incongruity with his presentoccupation, gave him an hysterical impulse to laugh. The shadows werealready gathering, when he saw a slender, graceful figure disappear inthe confectioner's shop on the block below. In his elaborateprecautions, he had overlooked that common trysting spot. He hurriedthither, and entered. The object of his search was not there, and hewas compelled to make a shamefaced, awkward survey of the tables in aninner refreshment saloon to satisfy himself. Any one of the prettygirls seated there might have been the one who had just entered, butnone was the one he sought. He hurried into the street again,—hehad wasted a precious moment,—and resumed his watch. The sun hadsunk, the Angelus had rung out of a chapel belfry, and shadows weredarkening the vista of the Alameda. She had not come. Perhaps she hadthought better of it; perhaps she had been prevented; perhaps the wholeappointment had been only a trick of some day-scholars, who werelaughing at him behind some window. In proportion as he becameconvinced that she was not coming, he was conscious of a keen despairgrowing in his heart, and a sickening remorse that he had ever thoughtof preventing her. And when he at last reluctantly reentered the hotel,he was as miserable over the conviction that she was not coming as hehad been at her expected arrival. The porter met him hurriedly in thehall.
"Sister Seraphina of the Sacred Heart has been here, in a hurry tosee you on a matter of importance," he said, eyeing Key somewhatcuriously. "She would not wait in the public parlor, as she said herbusiness was confidential, so I have put her in a private sitting-roomon your floor."
Key felt the blood leave his cheeks. The secret was out for all hisprecaution. The Lady Superior had discovered the girl'sflight,—or her attempt. One of the governing sisterhood was hereto arraign him for it, or at least prevent an open scandal. Yet he wasresolved; and seizing this last straw, he hurriedly mounted the stairs,determined to do battle at any risk for the girl's safety, and toperjure himself to any extent.
She was standing in the room by the window. The light fell upon thecoarse serge dress with its white facings, on the single girdle thatscarcely defined the formless waist, on the huge crucifix that dangledungracefully almost to her knees, on the hideous, white- winged coifthat, with the coarse but dense white veil, was itself a renunciationof all human vanity. It was a figure he remembered well as a boy, andeven in his excitement and half resentment touched him now, as when aboy, with a sense of its pathetic isolation. His head bowed with boyishdeference as she approached gently, passed him a slight salutation, andclosed the door that he had forgotten to shut behind him.
Then, with a rapid movement, so quick that he could scarcely followit, the coif, veil, rosary, and crucifix were swept off, and the youngpupil of the convent stood before him.
For all the sombre suggestiveness of her disguise and its ungracefulcontour, there was no mistaking the adorable little head, tumbled allover with silky tendrils of hair from the hasty withdrawal of her coif,or the blue eyes that sparkled with frank delight beneath them. Keythought her more beautiful than ever. Yet the very effect of herfrankness and beauty was to recall him to all the danger andincongruity of her position.
"This is madness," he said quickly. "You may be followed here anddiscovered in this costume at any moment!" Nevertheless, he caught thetwo little hands that had been extended to him, and held them tightly,and with a frank familiarity that he would have wondered at an instantbefore.
"But I won't," she said simply. "You see I'm doing a 'half-retreat'; and I stay with Sister Seraphina in her room; and she alwayssleeps two hours after the Angelus; and I got out without anybodyknowing me, in her clothes. I see what it is," she said, suddenlybending a reproachful glance upon him, "you don't like me in them. Iknow they're just horrid; but it was the only way I could get out."
"You don't understand me," he said eagerly. "I don't like you to runthese dreadful risks and dangers for"—He would have said "forme," but added with sudden humility—"for nothing. Had I dreamedthat you cared to see me, I would have arranged it easily without thisindiscretion, which might make others misjudge you. Every instant thatyou remain here—worse, every moment that you are away from theconvent in that disguise, is fraught with danger. I know you neverthought of it."
"But I did," she said quietly; "I thought of it, and thought that ifSister Seraphina woke up, and they sent for me, you would take me awaywith you to that dear little hollow in the hills, where I first heardyour voice. You remember it, don't you? You were lost, I think, in thedarkness, and I used to say to myself afterwards that I found you. Thatwas the first time. Then the second time I heard you, was here in thehall. I was alone in the other room, for Mrs. Barker had gone out. Idid not know you were here, but I knew your voice. And the third timewas before the convent gate, and then I knew you knew me. And afterthat I didn't think of anything but coming to you; for I knew that if Iwas found out, you would take me back with you, and perhaps send wordto my brother where we were, and then"— She stopped suddenly,with her eyes fixed on Key's blank face. Her own grew blank, the joyfaded out of her clear eyes, she gently withdrew her hand from his, andwithout a word began to resume her disguise.
"Listen to me," said Key passionately. "I am thinking only of YOU. Iwant to, and WILL, save you from any blame,—blame you do notunderstand even now. There is still time. I will go back to the conventwith you at once. You shall tell me everything; I will tell youeverything on the way."
She had already completely resumed her austere garb, and drew theveil across her face. With the putting on her coif she seemed to haveextinguished all the joyous youthfulness of her spirit, and moved withthe deliberateness of renunciation towards the door. They descended thestaircase without a word. Those who saw them pass made way for themwith formal respect.
When they were in the street, she said quietly, "Don't give me yourarm—Sisters don't take it." When they had reached the streetcorner, she turned it, saying, "This is the shortest way."
It was Key who was now restrained, awkward, and embarrassed. Thefire of his spirit, the passion he had felt a moment before, had goneout of him, as if she were really the character she had assumed. Hesaid at last desperately:—
"How long did you live in the hollow?"
"Only two days. My brother was bringing me here to school, but inthe stage coach there was some one with whom he had quarreled, and hedidn't want to meet him with me. So we got out at Skinner's, and cameto the hollow, where his old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Barker, lived."
There was no hesitation nor affectation in her voice. Again he feltthat he would as soon have doubted the words of the Sister sherepresented as her own.
"And your brother—did you live with him?"
"No. I was at school at Marysville until he took me away. I sawlittle of him for the past two years, for he had business in themountains—very rough business, where he couldn't take me, for itkept him away from the settlements for weeks. I think it had somethingto do with cattle, for he was always having a new horse. I was allalone before that, too; I had no other relations; I had no friends. Wehad always been moving about so much, my brother and I. I never saw anyone that I liked, except you, and until yesterday I had only HEARDyou."
Her perfect naivete alternately thrilled him with pain and doubt. Inhis awkwardness and uneasiness he was brutal.
"Yes, but you must have met somebody—other men—hereeven, when you were out with your schoolfellows, or perhaps on anadventure like this."
Her white coif turned towards him quickly. "I never wanted to knowanybody else. I never cared to see anybody else. I never would havegone out in this way but for you," she said hurriedly. After a pauseshe added in a frightened tone: "That didn't sound like your voicethen. It didn't sound like it a moment ago either."
"But you are sure that you know my voice," he said, with affectedgayety. "There were two others in the hollow with me that night."
"I know that, too. But I know even what you said. You reproved themfor throwing a lighted match in the dry grass. You were thinking of usthen. I know it."
"Of US?" said Key quickly.
"Of Mrs. Barker and myself. We were alone in the house, for mybrother and her husband were both away. What you said seemed toforewarn me, and I told her. So we were prepared when the fire camenearer, and we both escaped on the same horse."
"And you dropped your shoes in your flight," said Key laughingly,"and I picked them up the next day, when I came to search for you. Ihave kept them still."
"They were HER shoes," said the girl quickly, "I couldn't find minein our hurry, and hers were too large for me, and dropped off." Shestopped, and with a faint return of her old gladness said, "Then youDID come back? I KNEW you would."
"I should have stayed THEN, but we got no reply when we shouted. Whywas that?" he demanded suddenly.
"Oh, we were warned against speaking to any stranger, or even beingseen by any one while we were alone," returned the girl simply.
"But why?" persisted Key.
"Oh, because there were so many highwaymen and horse-stealers in thewoods. Why, they had stopped the coach only a few weeks before, andonly a day or two ago, when Mrs. Barker came down. SHE saw them!"
Key with difficulty suppressed a groan. They walked on in silencefor some moments, he scarcely daring to lift his eyes to the decorouslittle figure hastening by his side. Alternately touched by mistrustand pain, at last an infinite pity, not unmingled with a desperateresolution, took possession of him.
"I must make a confession to you, Miss Rivers," he began with thebashful haste of a very boy, "that is"—he stammered with a halfhysteric laugh,—"that is—a confession as if you were reallya sister or a priest, you know—a sort of confidence toyou—to your dress. I HAVE seen you, or THOUGHT I saw you before.It was that which brought me here, that which made me follow Mrs.Barker—my only clue to you—to the door of that convent.That night, in the hollow, I saw a profile at the lighted window, whichI thought was yours."
"I never was near the window," said the young girl quickly. "It musthave been Mrs. Barker."
"I know that now," returned Key. "But remember, it was my only clueto you. I mean," he added awkwardly, "it was the means of my findingyou."
"I don't see how it made you think of me, whom you never saw, to seeanother woman's profile," she retorted, with the faintest touch ofasperity in her childlike voice. "But," she added, more gently and witha relapse into her adorable naivete, "most people's profiles lookalike."
"It was not that," protested Key, still awkwardly, "it was only thatI realized something—only a dream, perhaps."
She did not reply, and they continued on in silence. The gray wallof the convent was already in sight. Key felt he had achieved nothing.Except for information that was hopeless, he had come to no nearerunderstanding of the beautiful girl beside him, and his future appearedas vague as before; and, above all, he was conscious of an inferiorityof character and purpose to this simple creature, who had obeyed him sosubmissively. Had he acted wisely? Would it not have been better if hehad followed her own frankness, and—
"Then it was Mrs. Barker's profile that brought you here?" resumedthe voice beneath the coif. "You know she has gone back. I suppose youwill follow?"
"You will not understand me," said Key desperately. "But," he addedin a lower voice, "I shall remain here until you do."
He drew a little closer to her side.
"Then you must not begin by walking so close to me," she said,moving slightly away; "they may see you from the gate. And you must notgo with me beyond that corner. If I have been missed already they willsuspect you."
"But how shall I know?" he said, attempting to take her hand. "Letme walk past the gate. I cannot leave you in this uncertainty."
"You will know soon enough," she said gravely, evading his hand."You must not go further now. Good-night."
She had stopped at the corner of the wall. He again held out hishand. Her little fingers slid coldly between his.
"Good-night, Miss Rivers."
"Stop!" she said suddenly, withdrawing her veil and lifting herclear eyes to his in the moonlight. "You must not say THAT—itisn't the truth. I can't bear to hear it from YOUR lips, in YOUR voice.My name is NOT Rivers!"
"Not Rivers—why?" said Key, astounded.
"Oh, I don't know why," she said half despairingly; "only my brotherdidn't want me to use my name and his here, and I promised. My name is'Riggs'—there! It's a secret—you mustn't tell it; but Icould not bear to hear YOU say a lie."
"Good-night, Miss Riggs," said Key sadly.
"No, nor that either," she said softly. "Say Alice."
"Good-night, Alice."
She moved on before him. She reached the gate. For a moment herfigure, in its austere, formless garments, seemed to him to even stoopand bend forward in the humility of age and self- renunciation, and shevanished within as into a living tomb.
Forgetting all precaution, he pressed eagerly forward, and stoppedbefore the gate. There was no sound from within; there had evidentlybeen no challenge nor interruption. She was safe.
The reappearance of Chivers in the mill with Collinson, and thebrief announcement that the prisoner had consented to a satisfactorycompromise, were received at first with a half contemptuous smile bythe party; but for the commands of their leaders, and possibly aconviction that Collinson's fatuous cooperation with Chivers would besafer than his wrath, which might not expend itself only on Chivers,but imperil the safety of all, it is probable that they would haveinformed the unfortunate prisoner of his real relations to his captor.In these circumstances, Chivers's half satirical suggestion thatCollinson should be added to the sentries outside, and guard his ownproperty, was surlily assented to by Riggs, and complacently acceptedby the others. Chivers offered to post him himself,—not withoutan interchange of meaning glances with Riggs,—Collinson's own gunwas returned to him, and the strangely assorted pair left the millamicably together.
But however humanly confident Chivers was in his companion'sfaithfulness, he was not without a rascal's precaution, and determinedto select a position for Collinson where he could do the least damagein any aberration of trust. At the top of the grade, above the mill,was the only trail by which a party in force could approach it. Thiswas to Chivers obviously too strategic a position to intrust to hisprisoner, and the sentry who guarded its approach, five hundred yardsaway, was left unchanged. But there was another "blind" trail, orcut-off, to the left, through the thickest undergrowth of the woods,known only to his party. To place Collinson there was to insure himperfect immunity from the approach of an enemy, as well as from anyconfidential advances of his fellow sentry. This done, he drew a cigarfrom his pocket, and handing it to Collinson, lighted another forhimself, and leaning back comfortably against a large boulder, glancedcomplacently at his companion.
"You may smoke until I go, Mr. Collinson, and even afterwards, ifyou keep the bowl of your pipe behind a rock, so as to be out of sightof your fellow sentry, whose advances, by the way, if I were you, Ishould not encourage. Your position here, you see, is a rather peculiarone. You were saying, I think, that a lingering affection for your wifeimpelled you to keep this place for her, although you were convinced ofher death?"
Collinson's unaffected delight in Chivers's kindliness had made hiseyes shine in the moonlight with a doglike wistfulness. "I reckon I didsay that, Mr. Chivers," he said apologetically, "though it ain't goin'to interfere with you usin' the shanty jest now."
"I wasn't alluding to that, Collinson," returned Chivers, with alarge rhetorical wave of the hand, and an equal enjoyment in hiscompanion's evident admiration of him, "but it struck me that yourremark, nevertheless, implied some doubt of your wife's death, and Idon't know but that your doubts are right."
"Wot's that?" said Collinson, with a dull glow in his face.
Chivers blew the smoke of his cigar lazily in the still air."Listen," he said. "Since your miraculous conversion a few moments ago,I have made some friendly inquiries about you, and I find that you lostall trace of your wife in Texas in '52, where a number of her fellowemigrants died of yellow fever. Is that so?"
"Yes," said Collinson quickly.
"Well, it so happens that a friend of mine," continued Chiversslowly, "was in a train which followed that one, and picked up andbrought on some of the survivors."
"That was the train wot brought the news," said Collinson, relapsinginto his old patience. "That's how I knowed she hadn't come."
"Did you ever hear the names of any of its passengers?" saidChivers, with a keen glance at his companion.
"Nary one! I only got to know it was a small train of only twowagons, and it sorter melted into Californy through a southern pass,and kinder petered out, and no one ever heard of it agin, and that wasall."
"That was NOT all, Collinson," said Chivers lazily. "I saw the trainarrive at South Pass. I was awaiting a friend and his wife. There was alady with them, one of the survivors. I didn't hear her name, but Ithink my friend's wife called her 'Sadie.' I remember her as a ratherpretty woman—tall, fair, with a straight nose and a full chin,and small slim feet. I saw her only a moment, for she was on her way toLos Angeles, and was, I believe, going to join her husband somewhere inthe Sierras."
The rascal had been enjoying with intense satisfaction the return ofthe dull glow in Collinson's face, that even seemed to animate thewhole length of his angular frame as it turned eagerly towards him. Sohe went on, experiencing a devilish zest in this description of hismistress to her husband, apart from the pleasure of noting the slowawakening of this apathetic giant, with a sensation akin to havingwarmed him into life. Yet his triumph was of short duration. The firedropped suddenly out of Collinson's eyes, the glow from his face, andthe dull look of unwearied patience returned.
"That's all very kind and purty of yer, Mr. Chivers," he saidgravely; "you've got all my wife's pints thar to a dot, and it seems tofit her jest like a shoe I picked up t'other day. But it wasn't mySadie, for ef she's living or had lived, she'd bin just yere!"
The same fear and recognition of some unknown reserve in thistrustful man came over Chivers as before. In his angry resentment of ithe would have liked to blurt out the infidelity of the wife before herhusband, but he knew Collinson would not believe him, and he hadanother purpose now. His full lips twisted into a suave smile.
"While I would not give you false hopes, Mr. Collinson," he said,with a bland smile, "my interest in you compels me to say that you maybe over confident and wrong. There are a thousand things that may haveprevented your wife from coming to you,—illness, possibly theresult of her exposure, poverty, misapprehension of your place ofmeeting, and, above all, perhaps some false report of your own death.Has it ever occurred to you that it is as possible for her to have beendeceived in that way as for you?"
"Wot yer say?" said Collinson, with a vague suspicion.
"What I mean. You think yourself justified in believing your wifedead, because she did not seek you here; may she not feel herselfequally justified in believing the same of you, because you had notsought her elsewhere?"
"But it was writ that she was comin' yere, and—I boarded everytrain that come in that fall," said Collinson, with a new irritation,unlike his usual calm.
"Except one, my dear Collinson,—except one," returned Chivers,holding up a fat forefinger smilingly. "And that may be the clue. Now,listen! There is still a chance of following it, if you will. The nameof my friends were Mr. and Mrs. Barker. I regret," he added, with aperfunctory cough, "that poor Barker is dead. He was not such anexemplary husband as you are, my dear Collinson, and I fear was not allthat Mrs. Barker could have wished; enough that he succumbed fromvarious excesses, and did not leave me Mrs. Barker's present address.But she has a young friend, a ward, living at the convent of SantaLuisa, whose name is Miss Rivers, who can put you in communication withher. Now, one thing more: I can understand your feelings, and that youwould wish at once to satisfy your mind. It is not, perhaps, to myinterest nor the interest of my party to advise you, but," hecontinued, glancing around him, "you have an admirably secludedposition here, on the edge of the trail, and if you are missing fromyour post to-morrow morning, I shall respect your feelings, trust toyour honor to keep this secret, and—consider it useless to pursueyou!"
There was neither shame nor pity in his heart, as the deceived manturned towards him with tremulous eagerness, and grasped his hand insilent gratitude. But the old rage and fear returned, as Collinson saidgravely:—
"You kinder put a new life inter me, Mr. Chivers, and I wish I hadyer gift o' speech to tell ye so. But I've passed my word to theCapting thar and to the rest o' you folks that I'd stand guard outyere, and I don't go back o' my word. I mout, and I moutn't find mySadie; but she wouldn't think the less o' me, arter these years o'waitin', ef I stayed here another night, to guard the house I keep intrust for her, and the strangers I've took in on her account."
"As you like, then," said Chivers, contracting his lips, "but keepyour own counsel to-night. There may be those who would like to deteryou from your search. And now I will leave you alone in this delightfulmoonlight. I quite envy you your unrestricted communion with Nature.Adios, amigo, adios!"
He leaped lightly on a large rock that overhung the edge of thegrade, and waved his hand.
"I wouldn't do that, Mr. Chivers," said Collinson, with a concernedface; "them rocks are mighty ticklish, and that one in partiklar. Atech sometimes sends 'em scooting."
Mr. Chivers leaped quickly to the ground, turned, waved his handagain, and disappeared down the grade.
But Collinson was no longer alone. Hitherto his characteristicreveries had been of the past,—reminiscences in which there wasonly recollection, no imagination, and very little hope. Under thespell of Chivers's words his fancy seemed to expand; he began to thinkof his wife as she might be now,—perhaps ill, despairing,wandering hopelessly, even ragged and footsore, or—believing HIMdead—relapsing into the resigned patience that had been his own;but always a new Sadie, whom he had never seen or known before. A faintdread, the lightest of misgivings (perhaps coming from his veryignorance), for the first time touched his steadfast heart, and sent achill through it. He shouldered his weapon, and walked briskly towardsthe edge of the thick-set woods. There were the fragrant essences ofthe laurel and spruce—baked in the long-day sunshine that hadencompassed their recesses—still coming warm to his face; therewere the strange shiftings of temperature throughout the openings, thatalternately warmed and chilled him as he walked. It seemed so odd thathe should now have to seek her instead of her coming to him; it wouldnever be the same meeting to him, away from the house that he had builtfor her! He strolled back, and looked down upon it, nestling on theledge. The white moonlight that lay upon it dulled the glitter oflights in its windows, but the sounds of laughter and singing came toeven his unfastidious ears with a sense of vague discord. He walkedback again, and began to pace before the thick-set wood. Suddenly hestopped and listened.
To any other ears but those accustomed to mountain solitude it wouldhave seemed nothing. But, familiar as he was with all the infinitedisturbances of the woodland, and even the simulation of intrusioncaused by a falling branch or lapsing pine-cone, he was arrested now bya recurring sound, unlike any other. It was an occasional muffledbeat—interrupted at uncertain intervals, but always returning inregular rhythm, whenever it was audible. He knew it was made by acantering horse; that the intervals were due to the patches of deadleaves in its course, and that the varying movement was the effect ofits progress through obstacles and underbrush. It was therefore comingthrough some "blind" cutoff in the thick-set wood. The shifting of thesound also showed that the rider was unfamiliar with the locality, andsometimes wandered from the direct course; but the unfailing andaccelerating persistency of the sound, in spite of these difficulties,indicated haste and determination.
He swung his gun from his shoulder, and examined its caps. As thesound came nearer, he drew up beside a young spruce at the entrance ofthe thicket. There was no necessity to alarm the house, or call theother sentry. It was a single horse and rider, and he was equal tothat. He waited quietly, and with his usual fateful patience. Even thenhis thoughts still reverted to his wife; and it was with a singularfeeling that he, at last, saw the thick underbrush give way before awoman, mounted on a sweating but still spirited horse, who swept outinto the open. Nevertheless, he stopped in front of her, andcalled:—
"Hold up thar!"
The horse recoiled, nearly unseating her. Collinson caught thereins. She lifted her whip mechanically, yet remained holding it in theair, trembling, until she slipped, half struggling, half helplessly,from the saddle to the ground. Here she would have again fallen, butCollinson caught her sharply by the waist. At his touch she started anduttered a frightened "No!" At her voice Collinson started.
"Sadie!" he gasped.
"Seth!" she half whispered.
They stood looking at each other. But Collinson was already himselfagain. The man of simple directness and no imagination saw only hiswife before him—a little breathless, a little flurried, a littledisheveled from rapid riding, as he had sometimes seen her before, butotherwise unchanged. Nor had HE changed; he took her up where he hadleft her years ago. His grave face only broadened into a smile, as heheld both her hands in his.
"Yes, it's me—Lordy! Why, I was comin' only to-morrow to findye, Sade!"
She glanced hurriedly around her, "To—to find me," she saidincredulously.
"Sartain! That ez, I was goin' to ask about ye,—goin' to askabout ye at the convent."
"At the convent?" she echoed with a frightened amazement.
"Yes, why, Lordy Sade—don't you see? You thought I was dead,and I thought you was dead,—that's what's the matter. But I neverreckoned that you'd think me dead until Chivers allowed that it must beso."
Her face whitened in the moonlight "Chivers?" she said blankly.
"In course; but nat'rally you don't know him, honey. He only saw youonc't. But it was along o' that, Sade, that he told me he reckoned youwasn't dead, and told me how to find you. He was mighty kind andconsarned about it, and he even allowed I'd better slip off to you thisvery night."
"Chivers," she repeated, gazing at her husband with bloodlesslips.
"Yes, an awful purty-spoken man. Ye'll have to get to know him Sade.He's here with some of his folks az hez got inter trouble— I'mforgettin' to tell ye. You see"—
"Yes, yes, yes!" she interrupted hysterically; "and this is theMill?"
"Yes, lovey, the Mill—my mill—YOUR mill—the houseI built for you, dear. I'd show it to you now, but you see, Sade, I'mout here standin' guard."
"Are YOU one of them?" she said, clutching his hand desperately.
"No, dear," he said soothingly,—"no; only, you see, I giv' myword to 'em as I giv' my house to-night, and I'm bound to protect themand see 'em through. Why, Lordy! Sade, you'd have done the same—for Chivers."
"Yes, yes," she said, beating her hands together strangely, "ofcourse. He was so kind to bring me back to you. And you might havenever found me but for him."
She burst into an hysterical laugh, which the simple-minded manmight have overlooked but for the tears that coursed down her bloodlessface.
"What's gone o' ye, Sadie," he said in a sudden fear, grasping herhands; "that laugh ain't your'n—that voice ain't your'n. You'rethe old Sadie, ain't ye?" He stopped. For a moment his face blanched ashe glanced towards the mill, from which the faint sound of bacchanalianvoices came to his quick ear. "Sadie, dear, ye ain't thinkin' anythingagin' me? Ye ain't allowin' I'm keeping anythin' back from ye?"
Her face stiffened into rigidity; she dashed the tears from hereyes. "No," she said quickly. Then after a moment she added, with afaint laugh, "You see we haven't seen each other for so long—it's all so sudden—so unexpected."
"But you kem here, just now, calkilatin' to find me?" said Collinsongravely.
"Yes, yes," she said quickly, still grasping both his hands, butwith her head slightly turned in the direction of the mill.
"But who told ye where to find the mill?" he said, with gentlepatience.
"A friend," she said hurriedly. "Perhaps," she added, with asingular smile, "a friend of the friend who told you."
"I see," said Collinson, with a relieved face and a broadeningsmile, "it's a sort of fairy story. I'll bet, now, it was that oldBarker woman that Chivers knows."
Her teeth gleamed rigidly together in the moonlight, like adeath's-head. "Yes," she said dryly, "it was that old Barker woman.Say, Seth," she continued, moistening her lips slowly, "you're guardingthis place alone?"
"Thar's another feller up the trail,—a sentry,—but don'tyou be afeard, he can't hear us, Sade."
"On this side of the mill?"
"Yes! Why, Lord love ye, Sadie! t'other side o' the mill it dropsdown straight to the valley; nobody comes yer that way but poorlow-down emigrants. And it's miles round to come by the valley from thesummit."
"You didn't hear your friend Chivers say that the sheriff was outwith his posse to-night hunting them?"
"No. Did you?"
"I think I heard something of that kind at Skinner's, but it mayhave been only a warning to me, traveling alone."
"Thet's so," said Collinson, with a tender solicitude, "but none o'these yer road-agents would have teched a woman. And this yer Chiversain't the man to insult one, either."
"No," she said, with a return of her hysteric laugh. But it wasoverlooked by Collinson, who was taking his gun from beside the treewhere he had placed it, "Where are you going?" she said suddenly.
"I reckon them fellers ought to be warned o' what you heard. I'll beback in a minit."
"And you're going to leave me now—when—when we've onlyjust met after these years," she said, with a faint attempt at a smile,which, however, did not reach the cold glitter of her eyes.
"Just for a little, honey. Besides, don't you see, I've got to getexcused; for we'll have to go off to Skinner's or somewhere, Sadie, forwe can't stay in thar along o' them."
"So you and your wife are turned out of your home to pleaseChivers," she said, still smiling.
"That's whar you slip up, Sadie," said Collinson, with a troubledface; "for he's that kind of a man thet if I jest as much as hinted youwas here, he'd turn 'em all out o' the house for a lady. Thet's why Idon't propose to let on anything about you till to- morrow."
"To-morrow will do," she said, still smiling, but with a singularabstraction in her face. "Pray don't disturb them now. You say there isanother sentinel beyond. He is enough to warn them of any approach fromthe trail. I'm tired and ill—very ill! Sit by me here, Seth, andwait! We can wait here together—we have waited so long,Seth,—and the end has come now."
She suddenly lapsed against the tree, and slipped in a sittingposture to the ground. Collinson cast himself at her side, and put hisarm round her.
"Wot's gone o' ye, Sade? You're cold and sick. Listen. Your hoss isjust over thar feedin'. I'll put you back on him, run in and tell 'emI'm off, and be with ye in a jiffy, and take ye back to Skinner's."
"Wait," she said softly. "Wait."
"Or to the Silver Hollow—it's not so far."
She had caught his hands again, her rigid face close to his, "Whathollow?—speak!" she said breathlessly.
"The hollow whar a friend o' mine struck silver. He'll take yurin."
Her head sank against his shoulder. "Let me stay here," sheanswered, "and wait."
He supported her tenderly, feeling the gentle brushing of her hairagainst his cheek as in the old days. He was content to wait, holdingher thus. They were very silent; her eyes half closed, as if inexhaustion, yet with the strange suggestion of listening in the vacantpupils.
"Ye ain't hearin' anythin', deary?" he said, with a troubledface.
"No; but everything is so deathly still," she said in a frightenedwhisper.
It certainly was very still. A singular hush seemed to have slidover the landscape; there was no longer any sound from the mill; therewas an ominous rest in the woodland, so perfect that the tiny rustle ofan uneasy wing in the tree above them had made them start; even themoonlight seemed to hang suspended in the air.
"It's like the lull before the storm," she said with her strangelaugh.
But the non-imaginative Collinson was more practical. "It's mightylike that earthquake weather before the big shake thet dried up theriver and stopped the mill. That was just the time I got the news o'your bein' dead with yellow fever. Lord! honey, I allus allowed tomyself thet suthin' was happenin' to ye then."
She did not reply; but he, holding her figure closer to him, felt ittrembling with a nervous expectation. Suddenly she threw him off, androse to her feet with a cry. "There!" she screamed frantically,"they've come! they've come!"
A rabbit had run out into the moonlight before them, a gray fox haddashed from the thicket into the wood, but nothing else.
"Who's come?" said Collinson, staring at her.
"The sheriff and his posse! They're surrounding them now. Don't youhear?" she gasped.
There was a strange rattling in the direction of the mill, a dullrumble, with wild shouts and outcries, and the trampling of feet on itswooden platform. Collinson staggered to his feet; but at the samemoment he was thrown violently against his wife, and they both clunghelplessly to the tree, with their eyes turned toward the ledge. Therewas a dense cloud of dust and haze hanging over it.
She uttered another cry, and ran swiftly towards the rocky grade.Collinson ran quickly after her, but as she reached the grade hesuddenly shouted, with an awful revelation in his voice, "Come back!Stop, Sadie, for God's sake!" But it was too late. She had alreadydisappeared; and as he reached the rock on which Chivers had leaped, hefelt it give way beneath him.
But there was no sound, only a rush of wind from the valley below.Everything lapsed again into its awful stillness. As the cloud liftedfrom where the mill had stood, the moon shone only upon empty space.There was a singular murmuring and whispering from the woods beyondthat increased in sound, and an hour later the dry bed of the oldmill-stream was filled with a rushing river.
Preble Key returned to his hotel from the convent, it is to befeared, with very little of that righteous satisfaction which issupposed to follow the performance of a good deed. He was by no meanscertain that what he had done was best for the young girl. He had onlyshown himself to her as a worldly monitor of dangers, of which herinnocence was providentially unconscious. In his feverish haste toavert a scandal, he had no chance to explain his real feelings; he had,perhaps, even exposed her thwarted impulses to equally naive but moredangerous expression, which he might not have the opportunity to check.He tossed wakefully that night upon his pillow, tormented withalternate visions of her adorable presence at the hotel, and her bowed,renunciating figure as she reentered the convent gate. He waitedexpectantly the next day for the message she had promised, and which hebelieved she would find some way to send. But no message wasforthcoming. The day passed, and he became alarmed. The fear that herescapade had been discovered again seized him. If she were in closerestraint, she could neither send to him, nor could he convey to herthe solicitude and sympathy that filled his heart. In her childishfrankness she might have confessed the whole truth, and this would notonly shut the doors of the convent against him, under his formerpretext, but compromise her still more if he boldly called. He waylaidthe afternoon procession; she was not among them. Utterly despairing,the wildest plans for seeing her passed through his brain,—plansthat recalled his hot-headed youth, and a few moments later made himsmile at his extravagance, even while it half frightened him at thereality of his passion. He reached the hotel heart-sick and desperate.The porter met him on the steps. It was with a thrill that sent theblood leaping to his cheeks that he heard the man say:—
"Sister Seraphina is waiting for you in the sitting-room."
There was no thought of discovery or scandal in Preble Key's mindnow; no doubt or hesitation as to what he would do, as he sprang up thestaircase. He only knew that he had found her again, and was happy! Heburst into the room, but this time remembered to shut the door behindhim. He looked eagerly towards the window where she had stood the daybefore, but now she rose quickly from the sofa in the corner, where shehad been seated, and the missal she had been reading rolled from herlap to the floor. He ran towards her to pick it up. Her name—thename she had told him to call her—was passionately trembling onhis lips, when she slowly put her veil aside, and displayed a pale,kindly, middle-aged face, slightly marked by old scars of smallpox. Itwas not Alice; it was the real Sister Seraphina who stood beforehim.
His first revulsion of bitter disappointment was so quickly followedby a realization that all had been discovered, and his sacrifice ofyesterday had gone for naught, that he stood before her, stammering,but without the power to say a word. Luckily for him, his utterembarrassment seemed to reassure her, and to calm that timidity whichhis brusque man-like irruption might well produce in the inexperienced,contemplative mind of the recluse. Her voice was very sweet, albeitsad, as she said gently:—
"I am afraid I have taken you by surprise; but there was no time toarrange for a meeting, and the Lady Superior thought that I, who knewall the facts, had better see you confidentially. Father Cipriano gaveus your address."
Amazed and wondering, Key bowed her to a seat.
"You will remember," she went on softly, "that the Lady Superiorfailed to get any information from you regarding the brother of one ofour dear children, whom he committed to our charge through a—acompanion or acquaintance—a Mrs. Barker. As she was armed withhis authority by letter, we accepted the dear child through her,permitted her as his representative to have free access to his sister,and even allowed her, as an unattended woman, to pass the night at theconvent. We were therefore surprised this morning to receive a letterfrom him, absolutely forbidding any further intercourse,correspondence, or association of his sister with this companion, Mrs.Barker. It was necessary to inform the dear child of this at once, asshe was on the point of writing to this woman; but we were pained andshocked at her reception of her brother's wishes. I ought to say, injustice to the dear child, that while she is usually docile,intelligent, and tractable to discipline, and a devote in her religiousfeelings, she is singularly impulsive. But we were not prepared for therash and sudden step she has taken. At noon to-day she escaped from theconvent!"
Key, who had been following her with relief, sprang to his feet atthis unexpected culmination.
"Escaped!" he said. "Impossible! I mean," he added, hurriedlyrecalling himself, "your rules, your discipline, your attendants are soperfect."
"The poor impulsive creature has added sacrilege to hermadness—a sacrilege we are willing to believe she did notunderstand, for she escaped in a religious habit—my own."
"But this would sufficiently identify her," he said, controllinghimself with an effort.
"Alas, not so! There are many of us who go abroad on our missions inthese garments, and they are made all alike, so as to divert ratherthan attract attention to any individuality. We have sent privatemessengers in all directions, and sought her everywhere, but withoutsuccess. You will understand that we wish to avoid scandal, which amore public inquiry would create."
"And you come to me," said Key, with a return of his firstsuspicion, in spite of his eagerness to cut short the interview and befree to act,—"to me, almost a stranger?"
"Not a stranger, Mr. Key," returned the religieuse gently, "but to awell-known man—a man of affairs in the country where this unhappychild's brother lives—a friend who seems to be sent by Heaven tofind out this brother for us, and speed this news to him. We come tothe old pupil of Father Cipriano, a friend of the Holy Church; to thekindly gentleman who knows what it is to have dear relations of hisown, and who only yesterday was seeking the convent to"—
"Enough!" interrupted Key hurriedly, with a slight color. "I will goat once. I do not know this man, but I will do my best to find him. Andthis—this—young girl? You say you have no trace of her? Mayshe not still be here? I should have some clue by which to seekher—I mean that I could give to her brother."
"Alas! we fear she is already far away from here. If she went atonce to San Luis, she could have easily taken a train to San Franciscobefore we discovered her flight. We believe that it was the poorchild's intent to join her brother, so as to intercede for herfriend—or, perhaps, alas! to seek her."
"And this friend left yesterday morning?" he said quickly, yetconcealing a feeling of relief. "Well, you may depend on me! And now,as there is no time to be lost, I will make my arrangements to take thenext train." He held out his hand, paused, and said in almost boyishembarrassment: "Bid me God speed, Sister Seraphina!"
"May the Holy Virgin aid you," she said gently. Yet, as she passedout of the door, with a grateful smile, a characteristic reaction cameover Key. His romantic belief in the interposition of Providence wasnot without a tendency to apply the ordinary rules of human evidence tosuch phenomena. Sister Seraphina's application to him seemed littleshort of miraculous interference; but what if it were only a trick toget rid of him, while the girl, whose escapade had been discovered, waseither under restraint in the convent, or hiding in Santa Luisa? Yetthis did not prevent him from mechanically continuing his arrangementsfor departure. When they were completed, and he had barely time to getto the station at San Luis, he again lingered in vague expectation ofsome determining event.
The appearance of a servant with a telegraphic message at thismoment seemed to be an answer to this instinctive feeling. He tore itopen hastily. But it was only a single line from his foreman at themine, which had been repeated to him from the company's office in SanFrancisco. It read, "Come at once—important."
Disappointed as it left him, it determined his action; and as thetrain steamed out of San Luis, it for a while diverted his attentionfrom the object of his pursuit. In any event, his destination wouldhave been Skinner's or the Hollow, as the point from which to begin hissearch. He believed with Sister Seraphina that the young girl wouldmake her direct appeal to her brother; but even if she sought Mrs.Barker, it would still be at some of the haunts of the gang. The letterto the Lady Superior had been postmarked from "Bald Top," which Keyknew to be an obscure settlement less frequented than Skinner's. Eventhen it was hardly possible that the chief of the road agents wouldpresent himself at the post-office, and it had probably been left bysome less known of the gang. A vague idea, that was hardly a suspicion,that the girl might have a secret address of her brother's, withoutunderstanding the reasons for its secrecy, came into his mind. A stillmore vague hope, that he might meet her before she found her brother,upheld him. It would be an accidental meeting on her part, for he nolonger dared to hope that she would seek or trust him again. And it waswith very little of his old sanguine quality that, travel-worn andweary, he at last alighted at Skinner's. But his half careless inquiryif any lady passengers had lately arrived there, to his embarrassmentproduced a broad smile on the face of Skinner.
"You're the second man that asked that question, Mr. Key," hesaid.
"The second man?" ejaculated Key nervously.
"Yes the first was the sheriff of Sierra. He wanted to find a tall,good-looking woman, about thirty, with black eyes. I hope that ain'tthe kind o' girl you're looking arter—is it? for I reckon she'sgin you both the slip."
Key protested with a forced laugh that it was not, yet suddenlyhesitated to describe Alice; for he instantly recognized the portraitof her friend, the assumed Mrs. Barker. Skinner continued in lazyconfidence:—
"Ye see they say that the sheriff had sorter got the dead wood onthat gang o' road agents, and had hemmed 'em in somewhar betwixt BaldTop and Collinson's. But that woman was one o' their spies, and spottedhis little game, and managed to give 'em the tip, so they got cleanaway. Anyhow, they ain't bin heard from since. But the big shake hasmade scoutin' along the ledges rather stiff work for the sheriff. Theysay the valley near Long Canyon's chock full o' rock and slumgullionthat's slipped down."
"What do you mean by the big shake?" asked Key in surprise.
"Great Scott! you didn't hear of it? Didn't hear of the 'arthquakethat shook us up all along Galloper's the other night? Well," he addeddisgustedly, "that's jist the conceit of them folks in the bay, thatcan't allow that ANYTHIN' happens in the mountains!"
The urgent telegrams of his foreman now flashed across Key'spreoccupied mind. Possibly Skinner saw his concern, "I reckon your mineis all right, Mr. Key. One of your men was over yere last night, anddidn't say nothin'."
But this did not satisfy Key; and in a few minutes he had mountedhis horse and was speeding towards the Hollow, with a remorsefulconsciousness of having neglected his colleagues' interests. Forhimself, in the utter prepossession of his passion for Alice, he carednothing. As he dashed down the slope to the Hollow, he thought only ofthe two momentous days that she had passed there, and the fate that hadbrought them so nearly together. There was nothing to recall its sylvanbeauty in the hideous works that now possessed it, or the substantialdwelling-house that had taken the place of the old cabin. A few hurriedquestions to the foreman satisfied him of the integrity of theproperty. There had been some alarm in the shaft, but there was nosubsidence of the "seam," nor any difficulty in the working. "What Itelegraphed you for, Mr. Key, was about something that has cropped upway back o' the earthquake. We were served here the other day with alegal notice of a claim to the mine, on account of previous work doneon the ledge by the last occupant."
"But the cabin was built by a gang of thieves, who used it as ahoard for their booty," returned Key hotly, "and every one of them areoutlaws, and have no standing before the law." He stopped with a pangas he thought of Alice. And the blood rushed to his cheeks as theforeman quietly continued:—
"But the claim ain't in any o' their names. It's allowed to be thegift of their leader to his young sister, afore the outlawry, and it'sin HER name—Alice Riggs or something."
Of the half-dozen tumultuous thoughts that passed through Key'smind, only one remained. It was purely an act of the brother's tosecure some possible future benefit for his sister. And of this she wasperfectly ignorant! He recovered himself quickly, and said with asmile:—
"But I discovered the ledge and its auriferous character myself.There was no trace or sign of previous discovery or miningoccupation."
"So I jedged, and so I said, and thet puts ye all right. But Ithought I'd tell ye; for mining laws is mining laws, and it's the onething ye can't get over," he added, with the peculiar superstitiousreverence of the Californian miner for that vested authority.
But Key scarcely listened. All that he had heard seemed only to linkhim more fatefully and indissolubly with the young girl. He was alreadyimpatient of even this slight delay in his quest. In his perplexity histhoughts had reverted to Collinson's: the mill was a good point tobegin his search from; its good-natured, stupid proprietor might be hisguide, his ally, and even his confidant.
When his horse was baited, he was again in the saddle. "If yer goingCollinson's way, yer might ask him if he's lost a horse," said theforeman. "The morning after the shake, some of the boys picked up amustang, with a make-up lady's saddle on." Key started! While it wasimpossible that it could have been ridden by Alice, it might have beenby the woman who had preceded her.
"Did you make any search?" he inquired eagerly; "there may have beenan accident."
"I reckon it wasn't no accident," returned the foreman coolly, "forthe riata was loose and trailing, as if it had been staked out, andbroken away."
Without another word, Key put spurs to his horse and galloped away,leaving his companion staring after him. Here was a clue: the horsecould not have strayed far; the broken tether indicated a camp; thegang had been gathered somewhere in the vicinity where Mrs. Barker hadwarned them,—perhaps in the wood beyond Collinson's. He wouldpenetrate it alone. He knew his danger; but as a SINGLE unarmed man hemight be admitted to the presence of the leader, and the alleged claimwas a sufficient excuse. What he would say or do afterwards dependedupon chance. It was a wild scheme—but he was reckless. Yet hewould go to Collinson's first.
At the end of two hours he reached the thick-set wood that gave uponthe shelf at the top of the grade which descended to the mill. As heemerged from the wood into the bursting sunlight of the valley below,he sharply reined in his horse and stopped. Another bound would havebeen his last. For the shelf, the rocky grade itself, the ledge below,and the mill upon it, were all gone! The crumbling outer wall of therocky grade had slipped away into immeasurable depths below, leavingonly the sharp edge of a cliff, which incurved towards the woods thathad once stood behind the mill, but which now bristled on the very edgeof a precipice. A mist was hanging over its brink and rising from thevalley; it was a full-fed stream that was coursing through the formerdry bed of the river and falling down the face of the bluff. He rubbedhis eyes, dismounted, crept along the edge of the precipice, and lookedbelow: whatever had subsided and melted down into its thousand feet ofdepth, there was no trace left upon its smooth face. Scarcely an angleof drift or debris marred the perpendicular; the burial of all ruin wasdeep and compact; the erasure had been swift and sure— theobliteration complete. It might have been the precipitation of ages,and not of a single night. At that remote distance it even seemed as ifgrass were already growing ever this enormous sepulchre, but it wasonly the tops of the buried pines. The absolute silence, the utterabsence of any mark of convulsive struggle, even the lulling whimper offalling waters, gave the scene a pastoral repose.
So profound was the impression upon Key and his human passion thatit at first seemed an ironical and eternal ending of his quest. It waswith difficulty that he reasoned that the catastrophe occurred beforeAlice's flight, and that even Collinson might have had time to escape.He slowly skirted the edge of the chasm, and made his way back throughthe empty woods behind the old mill-site towards the place where he haddismounted. His horse seemed to have strayed into the shadows of thiscovert; but as he approached him, he was amazed to see that it was nothis own, and that a woman's scarf was lying over its side saddle. Awild idea seized him, and found expression in an impulsivecry:—
"Alice!"
The woods echoed it; there was an interval of silence, and then afaint response. But it was HER voice. He ran eagerly forward in thatdirection, and called again; the response was nearer this time, andthen the tall ferns parted, and her lithe, graceful figure camerunning, stumbling, and limping towards him like a wounded fawn. Herface was pale and agitated, the tendrils of her light hair werestraying over her shoulder, and one of the sleeves of her school-gownwas stained with blood and dust. He caught the white and tremblinghands that were thrust out to him eagerly.
"It is YOU!" she gasped. "I prayed for some one to come, but I didnot dream it would be YOU. And then I heard YOUR voice—and Ithought it could be only a dream until you called a second time."
"But you are hurt," he exclaimed passionately. "You have met withsome accident!"
"No, no!" she said eagerly. "Not I—but a poor, poor man Ifound lying on the edge of the cliff. I could not help him much, I didnot care to leave him. No one WOULD come! I have been with him alone,all the morning! Come quick, he may be dying."
He passed his arm around her waist unconsciously; she permitted itas unconsciously, as he half supported her figure while they hurriedforward.
"He had been crushed by something, and was just hanging over theledge, and could not move nor speak," she went on quickly. "I draggedhim away to a tree, it took me hours to move him, he was soheavy,—and I got him some water from the stream and bathed hisface, and blooded all my sleeve."
"But what were you doing here?" he asked quickly.
A faint blush crossed the pallor of her delicate cheek. She lookedaway quickly. "I—was going to find my brother at Bald Top," shereplied at last hurriedly. "But don't ask me now—only come quick,do."
"Is the wounded man conscious? Did you speak with him? Does he knowwho you are?" asked Key uneasily.
"No! he only moaned a little and opened his eyes when I dragged him.I don't think he even knew what had happened."
They hurried on again. The wood lightened suddenly. "Here!" she saidin a half whisper, and stepped timidly into the open light. Only a fewfeet from the fatal ledge, against the roots of a buckeye, with HERshawl thrown over him, lay the wounded man.
Key started back. It was Collinson!
His head and shoulders seemed uninjured; but as Key lifted theshawl, he saw that the long, lank figure appeared to melt away belowthe waist into a mass of shapeless and dirty rags. Key hurriedlyreplaced the shawl, and, bending over him, listened to his hurriedrespiration and the beating of his heart. Then he pressed adrinking-flask to his lips. The spirit seemed to revive him; he slowlyopened his eyes. They fell upon Key with quick recognition. But thelook changed; one could see that he was trying to rise, but that nomovement of the limbs accompanied that effort of will, and his oldpatient, resigned look returned. Key shuddered. There was some injuryto the spine. The man was paralyzed.
"I can't get up, Mr. Key," he said in a faint but untroubled voice,"nor seem to move my arms, but you'll just allow that I've shook handswith ye—all the same."
"How did this happen?" said Key anxiously.
"Thet's wot gets me! Sometimes I reckon I know, and sometimes Idon't. Lyin' thar on thet ledge all last night, and only jest able tolook down into the old valley, sometimes it seemed to me ez if I fellover and got caught in the rocks trying to save my wife; but then whenI kem to think sensible, and know my wife wasn't there at all, I getmystified. Sometimes I think I got ter thinkin' of my wife only whenthis yer young gal thet's bin like an angel to me kem here and draggedme off the ledge, for you see she don't belong here, and hez dropped onto me like a sperrit."
"Then you were not in the house when the shock came?" said Key.
"No. You see the mill was filled with them fellers as the sheriffwas arter, and it went over with 'em—and I"—
"Alice," said Key, with a white face, "would you mind going to myhorse, which you will find somewhere near yours, and bringing me amedicine case from my saddle-bags?"
The innocent girl glanced quickly at her companion, saw the changein his face, and, attributing it to the imminent danger of the injuredman, at once glided away. When she was out of hearing, Key leanedgravely over him:—
"Collinson, I must trust you with a secret. I am afraid that thispoor girl who helped you is the sister of the leader of that gang thesheriff was in pursuit of. She has been kept in perfect ignorance ofher brother's crimes. She must NEVER know them—nor even know hisfate! If he perished utterly in this catastrophe, as it wouldseem—it was God's will to spare her that knowledge. I tell youthis, to warn you in anything you say before her. She MUST believe, asI shall try to make her believe, that he has gone back to theStates—where she will perhaps, hereafter, believe that he died.Better that she should know nothing—and keep her thought of himunchanged."
"I see—I see—I see, Mr. Key," murmured the injured man."Thet's wot I've been sayin' to myself lyin' here all night. Thet's wotI bin sayin' o' my wife Sadie,—her that I actooally got to thinkkem back to me last night. You see I'd heerd from one o' those fellarsthat a woman like unto her had been picked up in Texas and brought onyere, and that mebbe she was somewhar in Californy. I was thatfoolish—and that ontrue to her, all the while knowin', as I oncetold you, Mr. Key, that ef she'd been alive she'd bin yere—that Ibelieved it true for a minit! And that was why, afore this happened, Ihad a dream, right out yer, and dreamed she kem to me, all white andtroubled, through the woods. At first I thought it war my Sadie; butwhen I see she warn't like her old self, and her voice was strange andher laugh was strange—then I knowed it wasn't her, and I wasdreamin'. You're right, Mr. Key, in wot you got off just now—wotwas it? Better to know nothin'—and keep the old thoughtsunchanged."
"Have you any pain?" asked Key after a pause.
"No; I kinder feel easier now."
Key looked at his changing face. "Tell me," he said gently, "if itdoes not tax your strength, all that has happened here, all you know.It is for HER sake."
Thus adjured, with his eyes fixed on Key, Collinson narrated hisstory from the irruption of the outlaws to the final catastrophe. Eventhen he palliated their outrage with his characteristic patience,keeping still his strange fascination for Chivers, and his blind beliefin his miserable wife. The story was at times broken by lapses offaintness, by a singular return of his old abstraction andforgetfulness in the midst of a sentence, and at last by a fit ofcoughing that left a few crimson bubbles on the corners of his month.Key lifted his eyes anxiously; there was some grave internal injury,which the dying man's resolute patience had suppressed. Yet, at thesound of Alice's returning step, Collinson's eyes brightened,apparently as much at her coming as from the effect of the powerfulstimulant Key had taken from his medicine case.
"I thank ye, Mr. Key," he said faintly; "for I've got an idea Iain't got no great time before me, and I've got suthin' to say to you,afore witnesses"—his eyes sought Alice's in half apology—"afore witnesses, you understand. Would you mind standin' out thar,afore me, in the light, so I kin see you both, and you, miss,rememberin', ez a witness, suthin' I got to tell to him? You might takehis hand, miss, to make it more regular and lawlike."
The two did as he bade them, standing side by side, painfullyhumoring what seemed to them to be wanderings of a dying man.
"Thar was a young fellow," said Collinson in a steady voice, "ez kemto my shanty a night ago on his way to the—the—valley. Hewas a sprightly young fellow, gay and chipper-like, and he sez to me,confidential-like, 'Collinson,' sez he, 'I'm off to the States thisvery night on business of importance; mebbe I'll be away a longtime—for years! You know,' sez he, 'Mr. Key, in the Hollow! Go tohim,' sez he, 'and tell him ez how I hadn't time to get to see him;tell him,' sez he, 'that RIVERS'—you've got the name, Mr.Key?—you've got the name, miss?—'that RIVERS wants him tosay this to his little sister from her lovin' brother. And tell him,'sez he, this yer RIVERS, 'to look arter her, being alone.' You rememberthat, Mr. Key? you remember it, miss? You see, I remembered it, too,being, so to speak, alone myself"—he paused, and added in a faintwhisper—"till now."
Then he was silent. That innocent lie was the first and last uponhis honest lips; for as they stood there, hand in hand, they saw hisplain, hard face take upon itself, at first, the gray, ashen hues ofthe rocks around him, and then and thereafter something of the infinitetranquillity and peace of that wilderness in which he had lived anddied, and of which he was a part.
Contemporaneous history was less kindly. The "Bald Top Sentinel"congratulated its readers that the late seismic disturbance wasaccompanied with very little loss of life, if any. "It is reported thatthe proprietor of a low shebeen for emigrants in an obscure hollow hadsuccumbed from injuries; but," added the editor, with a fine touch ofWestern humor, "whether this was the result of his being forcibly mixedup with his own tanglefoot whiskey or not, we are unable to determinefrom the evidence before us." For all that, a small stone shaft wasadded later to the rocks near the site of the old mill, inscribed tothe memory of this obscure proprietor," with the singular legend: "Haveye faith like to him?" And those who knew only of the materialcatastrophe looking around upon the scene of desolation itcommemorated, thought grimly that it must be faith indeed,and—were wiser than they knew.
"You smiled, Don Preble," said the Lady Superior to Key a few weekslater, "when I told to you that many caballeros thought it mostdiscreet to intrust their future brides to the maternal guardianshipand training of the Holy Church; yet, of a truth, I meant not YOU. Andyet—eh! well, we shall see."
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