RGL e-Book Cover 2017©
RGL e-Book Cover 2017©
Western Story Magazine, 22 November 1924,
with "Billy Angel, Trouble-Lover"
ON an October night, Sue Markham saw himfirst. October nights in the mountains are not the Octobernights of the plains. In the lowlands the air is crisp, butthe frost is not yet in it; in the mountains winter hasalready come, and on this night the cold was given teeth bya howling wind.
She preferred these windy, biting nights. For, when thetrains reached that little station of Derby and paused toput on the extra engine that would tug them up the longgrade and over the shoulder of Derby Mountain, the crewsdarted in for a piece of pie and a cup of hot coffee. Forfive minutes, she would be kept busy serving like lightning,and the cash drawer was constantly banging open and shut.Sometimes a passenger hurried in to swallow a morsel offood, listening with a haunted look in his eyes for the cryof "All aboard!" She had glimpses of ladies and gentlemen,in this way. She saw their fine clothes, their train-wearyfaces. And, usually, they left tips.
At first she used to return those tips to them. But shefound that it was hard to make them take the money back. So,after a time, she merely swallowed her pride and kept thetips for old Pete Allison, who had lost his right arm in thesawmill and spent his days, since that time, waiting fordeath and hating the world—hating even the girl andthe charity from her that he was forced to accept.
She made a scant living in this way. For three years,since the death of her father, she had kept on with thelittle lunch counter. It was the only cheerful spot near thestation and therefore it was patronized heavily by the trainpopulation. She knew, too, that they came into the lunchcounter, those oily, greasy, blackened firemen and brakiesand engineers, more for the sake of her pretty face than forthe sake of the food. So she had learned to smile, asvaudeville actors and actresses learn to smile. Except thatshe had to put more meaning into those smiles, for anaudience of half a dozen is more critical than an audienceof half a thousand or more.
At odd moments, when there was nothing else to do, theyused to propose to her. It was always interesting, althoughnever important. And they had various ways of going aboutit.
"I got a raise on the first. Suppose we get hooked up,Sue?"
"Single harness is dog-gone' lonesome, Sue. Let's try tomake the grade together."
"You got to marry somebody, Sue. Why not me?"
"Sue, old dear, you're made to order for an engineer'swife."
Almost always there was a note of banter in theseproposals, and their eyes remained humorous, no matter howserious their voices might be. She learned that this wasbecause they expected to be refused, and she found out thatthey compared notes afterward and told one another how shehad declined them. It came to be a regular thing. Everyyoungster who came on the division was expected to lose hisheart to Sue and ask for her hand. And afterward he had totell what had happened. It was a sort of initiationceremony. She took it as much for granted as they did, ofcourse. But she could never keep from blushing and smilingat them and she usually told them that she intended to be anold maid.
They took these rejections easily enough, and went backinto the night to their work, or else they sat down aroundthe stove at the end of the room and let their wet clothessteam out, perhaps. Her life consisted of nothing but men.There was not another woman in Derby. There was not even agirl child. On that side of the mountain she and she alonerepresented femininity.
On this October evening, a southwester that had beenblowing strong but warm all day pulled around into the northand instantly there was ice in the air. She had to send oldPete Allison out for more wood and fill the stove and openthe draft until great, ominous red places appeared on thetop and along the sides of the stove. Even so, prying draftscontinually slid into the room and stabbed one withinvisible daggers of ice. The lunch counter, of course, wasbusier than ever. She burned her fingers with the overflowfrom coffee cups. Her stock of pie—baked in her ownoven in dull times of the day or even at night—wasnine-tenths consumed.
Then he came into the place.
There was an arresting air about him. He came in entirelysurrounded by a group of four brakies, but she found herselfcraning her neck at him. He was a big young man, dressed ina lumberman's Mackinaw of a brilliant plaid, but all thelooseness of that comfortable garment was plumped out by theswelling muscles of his shoulders.
He took off his hat to her as he went by. The lower partof his face was covered with the stiff, upturned collar ofhis Mackinaw, but she could see that he was a handsomeyoungster in his early twenties, with a rather pale face anda pair of bright black eyes. Also, although he greeted herso pleasantly, she knew that she had never seen him before.No matter how thronged the counter might have been, shenever could have seen that face before and forgotten it.
He did not pause at the counter, but he went straightback toward the stove and there sat down on an overturnedbox in a corner so dark that she could not make him out anymore, except as a shadow among the shadows.
After a time the others went out. The train was pullingaway up the grade. Its stertorous coughing became lessthunderous in the distance; the floor ceased to tremble withthe vibrations from the ponderous driving wheels. The trucksof the coaches rolled slowly, heavily past the station witha more and more rapid cadence in their rattling.
There was not a soul remaining except Pete Allison andthe stranger.
Something like fear came into the girl. She was amazed atherself. Surely there was not a man in all the world sheneeded to fear. In the pocket of her dress there was alittle police whistle that one of the firemen had given her;one blast on that whistle would bring them up to her. Twiceshe had had to use it; once when a new brakie full oftequila came into the place, and once when a vicious tramptroubled her. And, on each occasion, there had been a rushlike a cavalry charge that had ended with her fighting tosave the lives of the offenders.
Certainly here was protection enough to have satisfiedthe most timid of women, but still there was an uneasyfeeling in her heart, a sort of tremulous lightness. Itbewildered her. As she worked among the dishes, washing themin haste, she found her glances drawn sidelong toward thestranger again and again. He had not moved from his place,except to lean back a little more heavily against the wall.His head had fallen on his breast—perhaps he wassleeping?
She paused with a cup half dried. There had been no rain,and yet she had heard most distinctly the dripping ofsomething on the floor of the room. She listened again,intently. There was no doubt about it—a drop, and thenanother.
She turned sharply toward the stove, bewildered, in timeto see something drop glistening in a dim streak from thehand of the stranger, where it had fallen across hisknee.
A little chill of horror crept through the flesh of thegirl—and again she could not tell why. She took thelamp from above the counter and carried it to the countertable. The broad, dull circle of its light now covered thelower part of the man's body, his feet and the floor onwhich they rested, and on the wood there was a littlegleaming spot, of a dark color. Of a dark color, but surelynot red! Surely not red!
She flashed a glance in terror toward the door. Then sheassured herself with a great effort that there was nodanger, and she raised the lamp. It showed her the strangerslumped far down on the box, his head deeply inclined, thevery picture of a weary man asleep, but at that moment thedrop of liquid hung again at the tip of his fingers anddropped once more, a gleaming streak of red, toward thelittle dark spot beside his foot.
It was blood—was the stranger dead? All thegleaming life in those black eyes—was it gone forever?She put down the lamp and ran hastily toward him. She caughthim beneath the chin and rolled back his head. It turnedloosely—a horrible looseness. It lay back against thewall, but now the eyes opened and looked stupidly up to her.Surprise showed in them, then alarm. He lurched to his feetand scowled down at her.
"Well," he asked sharply, "what'll you have?"
"Man, man!" cried Sue Markham. "Where are you hurt?You're bleedin' to death!"
He jerked up his left hand at that and exposed the palmcovered with a great black clot, while a tiny rivulet randown on the inner side of his arm.
"The bandage slipped a little, I guess," he said. "That'sall..." He attempted to make a step, and stumbled.
"Sit down!" cried Sue.
"I can't stop," he muttered.
She pointed at him in horror. "Do you see? Do you see?You're all soaked through with blood."
"Stand away, girl. I got to get on."
"You'll be a dead man in an hour if I let you go! Sitdown here... let me look at that arm."
She caught at him and he strove to push her away. To herastonishment, she found she could master that great hulk ofmanhood. He was helpless before her, shaking his head,muttering savagely. She thrust him into a chair.
"I'll rest for a little spell longer," he declared,trying to cover up his weakness by scowling at her.
She waved his words away and quickly drew off his coat.The mischief was plainly in view then. A long gash crossedthe inside of his left arm, and from the cut the blood wasflowing through a crudely made bandage that had been twistedfrom place.
"What under heaven made that cut?" she cried softly tohim. "No knife..." For it was a broad, rough-edged slash.
"A bullet," said the big man finally. "Will you let meget on now?"
"A bullet!" cried Sue Markham. "Who?"
The other leaned weakly back in his chair. "The sheriff,"he said. "And there he's comin'!" He jerked his thumb with afeeble gesture over his shoulder, and in fact, through alull of the wind, she heard the beating of hoofs down themountainside, sweeping through the little town of Derby.
"Where'll I hide you?"
"Leave me be. This ain't no business for a girl."
"Here behind the counter... they'll never look..."
"I'll see 'em in hell before I sneak behind a girl'spetticoats to hide from 'em. You," he added, with a suddenand hysterical return of strength, "what's your name?"
"Sue Markham."
"Sue," he said, "you're as game as there is in the world.But this room ain't gonna be a place where a woman will wantto be. Run along outdoors... or upstairs..."
"What'll you do?"
"Set here, easy. Now, run along."
He caught her arm and turned her around. His hand for themoment was iron, irresistible, but in the same instant thestrength faded out of it and his arm dropped helplessly tohis knees. His whole great body began to sag. But still hetried to keep his head up, and his jaw was set. Heapologized, mumbling over the words. "I figgered on goin'straight on. But I was fagged. I only meant to set here amoment. Didn't think that I'd need to rest more'n a minute.Then... I got dizzy..."
"What do they want you for?"
"Something that ain't pretty. Run along, Sue Markham.Leave me be, here."
"You're going to try to fight them when they come. Why,you aren't strong enough to draw out a gun."
"I'll manage myself."
"What do they want you for? Is it serious? Will you tellme? Will you stop staring and tell me?"
His eyes rolled wildly up to her, and something like ahideous smile parted his lips. "Murder," he saidhuskily.
She had caught him by the shoulders, feeling him go limpbeneath her touch. Now she stared down into his black eyes,deep and deep, trying to read the truth about his soul, butfinding herself baffled.
"It was a fair fight," she insisted, trembling. "Youkilled someone in a fair fight."
He shook his head. "Stabbed," he said. "Behind."
A wave of actual physical sickness swept over her. "Youmean stabbed in the back?"
"Yes."
"You didn't do it, then."
"Tell the sheriff that," he said, and he smiled again upto her. Even as he sat there on the verge of collapse, thatsmile gave a touch of something ominous, something alert tohis presence. There was a sort of self-sufficient mockery ofthe world in it.
"I must get you out of the room," she said hurriedly.
He was so near collapse that he talked like a drunkard,with thick, stumbling lips.
"Murder. Y'understand? Murder. Want me for murder. Standaway from me, girl."
"Get up!" she cried, for she could hear the sound ofhorses pouring up the street.
"Show me the door," he said. "If you won't lemme sit herealone to meet 'em... I'll go out. It ain't right you shouldsee what's gonna happen... show me the door... there's a fogrolled into this room, Sue."
"It will clear up," she told him. "I'll show you the wayto the door. Stand up."
He made a wavering effort. She hooked his arm over hershoulder and lifted with all her strength. So he was drawnfrom the chair. He towered above her, immense, flabby, withhis head rolling idiotically on his shoulders.
"Soon as I get to the door... the fresh air'll fix meup," he was saying.
"Steady. You'll be there in a minute."
She heard him whisper: "God gimme strength... to face'em." He gasped aloud: "The door?"
"Another step!"
His weight slumped suddenly upon her. His head fell uponhers. She saw his great knees bend. He had fainted. And therush of the horses filled the street just before the oldsaloon with thundering echoes, empty, thundering echoes.
It was like having a sack of crushing weight, but onlyhalf filled, thrown upon her. She could never have liftedthis weight. Even now that it was propped against her, shewent reeling beneath it, and his legs trailed out, and hisfeet dragged side-wise behind her.
So she got him to the counter and lowered his lengthbehind it just as the door from the street was cast open.Had they seen her and her burden?
SHE stood up from lowering the wounded manto that shelter in time to see young Tom Kitchin, thesheriff, stride through the door with half a dozen menshouldering after him. They came stamping their feet forwarmth, their heavy coats powdered with snow. But there wasan eagerness in their faces that made her heart shrink.Surely they had seen. Their first words reassured her.
"The boys tell me that they seen a chap that answered hisdescription come in here... Billy Angel... we want him,Sue."
She leaned on the counter, resting both her elbows on it.She took all her courage in her hands, so to speak, and shemade herself smile back at handsome young Tom Kitchin.
"I've never met anyone called Billy Angel. Is this ajoke, Tommy?"
He shook his head, too serious for jest. "A great bigchap. Looks strong enough for two. Wore a heavy Mackinaw.Got a devil-take-the-next-man look to him. Couldn't mistakehim once you set eyes on him. Old Pete Allison says he washere and that he ain't seen him leave."
"Did Pete say that?" said the girl, silently registeringa grudge against the old man.
"He did."
"He went out the back door about fifteen minutesago."
"Back through here?"
"Yes."
"We're off, boys!" cried the sheriff. "We'll run the dogdown in an hour."
"Wait a minute, Sheriff," said Jack Hopper, the engineer,who was the rearmost of the party. "Wait a minute. If he cutback through the back door, he's headed for the hills."
"Weather like this? You're wild, Jack," answered thesheriff. "He'll cut for cover!"
"What's weather to him? He's got something inside himthat'll make him warm."
Another broke in: "You'll never get him. It's blowing upa hundred-percent storm. Let him go for a while, Sheriff.After he's run around through the snow all night, tryin' tokeep his blood goin'... he'll be spent pretty bad. We'll goout and ride him down in the morning."
The sheriff, growling deep in his throat and scowling,stepped to the back door of the room and cast it open. Agreat white hand of snow struck in at him. The flame leapedin the throat of the lamp, and the fire roared in the stove.He closed the door with a bang and turned his head down,shaking off the snowflakes.
"You're right, Jack," he said. "He's gone for the hills.And we'd never find him in this weather. Maybe he'll freezebefore morning, at that. I hope not. I want to see thehanging of that rat." He came back to the lunch counter."Coffee all around, Sue. We're cold to the marrow."
Her heart sank. Under her feet lay the wounded man.Perhaps at this very moment he was dying! His face was adull white, his eyes were partly opened, and showed anarrow, glassy slit. She could not repress a shudder. Butthere was nothing to do except to obey the order. She wentabout it as cheerfully as possible.
From the big percolator, the polished, gleaming pride ofthe counter, she drew the cups rapidly, one after another,and then held them under the hot-milk faucet until they werefilled. She set them out; she produced the sugar bowls andsent them rattling down the counter, where they came to apause at an appropriate interval before the line.
They were beginning to grow comfortable, making littlepilgrimages to the stove to spread their hands before thefire, and then returning in haste. Their faces grew fieryred, and the blood rushed up to the skin. The frowns ofeffort began to melt from their foreheads.
She was showered with orders.
"Lemon pie, Sue."
"That custard, Sue, under that glass case."
"Some of that coconut cake, Sue. Make it a doublewedge."
"When are you gonna leave off cooking for the world andcenter on one man, Sue?"
"I'm waiting for a silent man, Harry."
"I'm silent by nacher and education, Sue."
"We won't know till you've growed up, Harry."
"Sue, gimme a dash of that Carnation cream, will you?This here milk ain't thick enough."
"It's real cow's milk, Bud."
"The only kind of cows I like are canned, Sue. This herefresh milk, it ain't got no taste to it."
She opened a can of condensed milk and set it beforeBud.
"Another slice of apple pie, Sue."
"There ain't any more." This to the engineer, JackHopper.
"Didn't I see some back of the counter on thatshelf?"
"No, Jack! Really!"
But she spoke too late. He had already leaned far acrossthe high counter, lifting himself on his elbows, and so hisglance commanded everything that was behindit—everything including the pale, upturned face of thewounded man who was stretched along the floor.
Her hand froze on the edge of the counter. Before hereyes, the lighted lamp became a long swirl of yellow flame.When her sight cleared again, she found that Jack Hopper wasstanding back a little from the counter, saying slowly:"Well, Sue, I guess I'll change my mind about having anotherpiece. Let it go." He turned his back and went to the stove,and there he stood with his hands spread out to the blaze.Why had he not cried out? Because he thought that she hadsome profound reason for wishing to shelter thefugitive—and because Jack Hopper loved her.
The rest gave her a sentimental kindness, but Jack wasdifferent. He was no foolish boy, but a grown and hardenedman, with a man's firmness, a man's singleness of thoughtand purpose. For two years he had been campaigning quietlyto win her. And in turn, if she did not love him, sherespected him as a rock of strength and of honesty. Whatpassed in his mind now as he turned from the counter andstood by the stove?
The sheriff followed him with some question. Howcalamities rain one upon the other. His foot slipped; helooked down with a cry: "Blood, by the heavens! There'sblood on the floor!" Then: "How did this stuff come here,Sue?"
They turned to her, but none with eyes so piercinglyintent as those of Jack Hopper. In that crisis she feltherself perfectly calm. There was a stir beside her. She sawfrom the corner of her eye how Billy Angel was proppinghimself feebly upon one elbow. He was listening, too.
"One of the brakies off of Three Seventeen was whittlingwood by the stove," she said. "He cut his finger."
"Where's the shavings, then?" snapped out the sheriff,frowning at her.
She saw the flush run up the face of JackHopper—saw him frown in a belligerent manner at thesheriff.
"He said it would dry up and stop bleeding," Sue said."He sat there like a fool, letting it drip on my floor untilI made him stop."
"Is that it?"
"Yes. I swept up the shavings. But I hadn't time to cleanup that mess."
The sheriff nodded. "I'll tell you, fellows," he said tohis companions, "I figgered for a minute that maybe thatbullet of mine had nicked Billy Angel. He twisted aroundlike it might've stung him a mite. Have you heard about themurder, Sue?"
"I don't want to hear," she said. "These horror storiesput my nerves on edge."
"Since when?" The sheriff chuckled. "Well, Sue, you're aqueer one. You've always been hunting for all the shootingstories. This was a bad case. Young Charlie Ormond... theson of that rich Ormond... he was stabbed in the back by hiscousin... this Billy Angel. A darned black case, I'd say.Angel was taken in by old Ormond and raised by him the sameas Charlie."
She gaped at that recital of horror. "Are you sure he didit, Tom?"
"Wasn't he seen? Oh, there ain't any doubt of it. And heran for it. An honest man always takes the chance of bein'arrested. This here Billy Angel, he turned and cut for itlike a streak." He said to his companions: "Rustle around,boys. See if you can figger it out so's you get the besthosses around the town and have 'em ready by the mornin'.Surefooted ones are what you'll want after this snow. It'sgonna be sloppy work tomorrow if the wind pulls around tothe south ag'in."
They went out, calling back to her as they passed throughthe door, each with some foolish thing to add to what theothers said. But she waved to them all with the same fixed,meaningless smile. Then she looked down at Billy Angel.
He was sitting up with his back against the wall. Evenwhile they were calling their farewells to her, he wascalmly straightening the bandage on his arm where thebleeding had ceased entirely. Now he looked up calmly ather.
"Well?" she said, feeling that her heart had turned toiron in her breast.
"You could have saved the sheriff a pile of work bypointing behind the counter."
She answered coldly: "They never do things that way in myfamily. If the dogs were after it... I wouldn't show even arat to 'em."
He watched her quietly. "I understand," he said.
SHE would have given a great deal to haverecalled that last speech of hers in the face of thisperfect poise of the fugitive. For the steadiness with whichhis eyes held upon her seemed to tell her that, no matterwhat the sheriff had said, and no matter what the manhimself confessed, he never could have been guilty of thatdastardly crime of which he was accused. Moreover, there wasa sense of a scornful curiosity with which he examined her,and seemed, behind those bright black eyes of his, to beweighing her. And finding her, no doubt, wanting.
Still, she could not unbend at once, and she was full ofthe revolt that had recently swept over her. There was ironin her voice when she said: "Can you walk?"
"I figger that I can," he said. "Anyway, I aim to try."He laid hold upon the supporting post that held up thecounter, and, pulling with the one hand and thrustinghimself up with the other, he managed to sway to his knees.There he paused. She could hear his panting, and his breastworked with the cost of the labor. There came to her adisgusting suspicion that he was overdoing the fatigue andacting a part for the sake of imposing upon her. She did notstir to help him. Now he strove again, and came to his feetby degrees, and stood with his big hand spread on thecounter, leaning over it, breathing hard.
There was no sham here. She could see a tremor in thoselarge hands, and that was proof enough. No acting couldcounterfeit the reality so perfectly. Once again there was asudden and hot melting of the girl's heart.
"Billy Angel," she said fiercely, "did you do it? Did youreally do it?"
Even in that moment of near collapse, his caustic humordid not desert him. "Are you aimin' to believe what I say?"he asked her.
"Ishall believe it."
"Why, then, sure I didn't." He grinned at her again, asthough part in mockery and part asking her to step inside amore intimate understanding of this affair. There was no wayin which she could come close to him. Still he thrust heraway to arm's length and seemed to laugh at her attempts toknow him and the truth about him. Something about that grimindependence made her admire him; something about it madeher fear him. He seemed capable of anything, of facing onehundred men with guns in their hands—or, indeed, ofstabbing one helpless man in the back by stealth. She wouldhave paid down without an afterthought the treasures of aCroesus to have known the truth. She would have paiddown that much to win from him one serious, open, frank-hearted answer.
"You didn't do it," she said. "Well, God knows, I hopeyou didn't. Now I got to get you upstairs where I can have alook at that wound."
He pointed up and over his shoulder. "Up to yourroom?"
"Yes."
He shook his head with a half-scornful, half-mirthfulsmile. "I'll be off."
"You'll freeze to death in an hour. Look at thewindows."
They were clouded with thick white, quite opaque.
"Sue," he said, "I dunno but what you're an ace-hightrump, but when it comes to hidin' in your room..." His smiledisappeared; a wild and vacant look crossed his face, and hereeled, holding tight to the edge of the counter while hisknees sagged. Only a giant effort of the will had kept himerect, she could see. She caught at him as she had donebefore, passing his unwounded arm over her shoulder, takinghim around the triple-corded muscles of the waist with herfree arm.
"Come along," she commanded, and dragged him toward thedoor that led to the upstairs room.
Then his bravado deserted him. "Sue," he said, "forheaven's sake, lemme go. I don't deserve the good treatmenta dog..."
"I'm doin' no more for you than I would for a hurtdog."
"Lemme rest one minute more," he gasped out, "and then Ican get outside..."
"To die?"
"I'll find... ay..." He reeled, and the weight of hisbody sent them both staggering.
In that moment she brought him through the door. "Now upthe stairs. You've got to work for me, and with me, BillyAngel!"
"Lemme rest... one minute..."
She let him lean against the wall, his head fallen back,his wounded arm hanging limply, the other loosely over her,pressing close to him with its powerless weight. She couldcount the beating of his heart, feeble and fluttering, withpauses in the beats. It seemed that mere loss of blood couldnot so affect him. In that great bulk of muscle and bonethere was only the faintest winking light of life, ready tosnap out and leave all cold and dark forever. And it must beshe, with an uninstructed wisdom, who should cherish thatflame and keep it fluttering until it burned up strongagain.
"Can you try now, Billy?"
"I'll try now."
"There's one step up." She lifted him with a fearfuleffort. "No, the other leg... the right leg, Billy. Steady.Now another step. Lean on me... I'm strong."
"I got to go..."
"In a little while. When you've had half an hour'ssleep."
He muttered with a drunken thickness: "That's it... amite of sleep will set me up... I'll... I'll sleep here...right on the stairs... it's good enough."
It meant all his power every moment of that nightmare ofa climb—and more than all her strength when he reeledand wavered—which was at every other step. But at lasthe reached the head of the stairs, and she brought himsafely into her room. When she brought him into it, for thefirst time it seemed to her a mere corner—so small itwas. They reached the bed—he slipped from hershoulder, and the bed groaned under his weight. There he layon his back with his arms cast out clumsily.
Once more there was that look of death in his face. Theeyelids were slightly opened, and the glazed pupilsglimmered with the suggestion of departed life. Only, as shewatched him with dread in her throat, she saw a fainttwitching of his lips. Then she hurried about the properbandaging of the wound. She brought warm water and washedit. Then, with care, she closed the rough edges of thewound, still oozing blood. It was no easy task. The great,twisted muscles of the forearm were as firm and tough as thethigh of an ordinary man, but she fixed the bandage inplace. She had half a bottle of rye whiskey. She brought itfor him and sat on the bed, lifting his head. His headalone, limp as it was, was a burden. It seemed a miracle nowthat she had been able to support that tottering, waveringbulk of a man. At last the glass was at his lips, theyparted, tasted the stuff, and then swallowed it down.
Almost immediately a faint flush came into his face, andthen his eyes fluttered open. They looked blankly up to her."What's wrong? What's up?" he asked, half frowning.
"Nothing," she said very softly.
"Nothing wrong? I thought... I dreamed... all right,then. I'll sleep. I got work... tomorrow..." He sighed andinstantly he was sound asleep.
She watched him for a moment, and then, hearing thejingle of her store bell, she rose hurriedly. Shepassed the mirror, and, catching a glimpse of her face, shefound that it still wore a faint smile, half-wistful, half-contented.
She was wondering at herself as she ran down the stairs.In the lunchroom she found the last man in the world shewanted to confront at that moment—Jack Hopper himself.She wanted to appear perfectly calm, perfectly cheerful,but, instead, she knew that she had turned white and thatshe was staring at him.
"I thought," he said stiffly, "that maybe you might needsomething done... for your friend."
"Friend?" she answered. "Why, Jack, I never saw the poorfellow before tonight."
The raising of his eyebrows stopped her. He quivered witha passion of disbelief and of scorn. "He looked pretty badhurt," said Jack Hopper. "If there was anything that I coulddo..."
"He's gone, Jack. I only kept him here until the sheriffwas gone..."
"Billy Angel is gone?" exclaimed the engineer.
"Yes. Right after the sheriff went away... and the restof the boys."
"Did he sneak out the back way?"
"No," she said, lying desperately. "He walked right outthe front door..."
He turned a dark red, and she knew, at once, that he musthave been keeping a close watch upon that door and that hewas certain no Billy Angel had passed that way.
"Well," said Hopper coldly, "I s'pose that there ain'tmuch I can do then?"
"I guess not," she answered, full of wretchedness, andhating Billy Angel with all her heart for the miserabletangle in which he had involved her.
Twice Jack Hopper turned his hat in his hands; twicewords came to the verge of his compressed lips.Then—"Good night!" he snapped out at her, and turnedon his heel. The closing of the door behind him seemed tothe girl the definite act that separated her from the restof the law-abiding world.
SHE closed the counter for the night now,then she went up to bed. There was a second room in thestory above. It was hardly a room. It was rather a merecorner with a cot in it and a bit of cracked glass for amirror on the wall, with a tiny dormer window peering outover the roof.
There she lay down, but she had hardly closed her eyeswhen she heard talking in the building. She wakened and satup, her heart thundering. It was Billy Angel, then, thatthey had come for. Jack Hopper, after all, had not been ableto keep the terrible secret. She hastened to the door of herroom in time to hear the speaking again, and this time shemade it out as coming from her own chamber. It was a strangevoice, raised high one moment, sinking the next, almost liketwo men in rapid conversation, yet she could tell that therewas only one speaker. It was not Sheriff Tom Kitchin.Certainly it was not Jack Hopper, or any other man she knew.Who could it be, then?
She crouched outside the door, listening. She heard thevoice rumble on:
"Take the second road and ride along half a mile... talkstraight to him. Talk like you didn't fear him none. Talklike you expect to get a square deal, and most likely you'llget one. Steady! Steady! Look here, I've come talkin'business, Charlie. Will you hear me? Go to the second house.Throw a stone up through the window. It'll be open. I'll dothat."
The voice died with a groan. It was Billy Angel inhelpless delirium. In the silence that followed, she stroveto unravel the babbling and bring sense out of it, but shestrove vainly.
Suddenly the voice resumed: "Now, Charlie, here we aretogether, and there ain't nobody likely to step in betweenus."
At this, a chill of deadly apprehension ran through theblood of the girl. For was this not a rehearsal of themurder scene in which he had struck down Charles Ormond? Shehad a wild desire to turn and flee, a terror lest she shouldhear him condemn himself with his own mouth.
"A knife, old son, will do the trick as well. A knife isa handy thing. Look what a wolf can do with his teeth.Suppose that he had a tooth as long as this... made ofsteel... and with the strength of a man's arm behind it...why, Charlie, he'd crawl into the caves of mountain lionsand rip their bellies open when they jumped at him. And thebest thing is... a knife don't make a sound... only awhisper when it sinks into you and asks the soul out of you.If you..."
There was no need of anything more convincing than this.To have denied his guilt after this would have been uttermostblindness, she felt. But, in the meantime, that voice wasrising every moment. Murderer though he was, he washelpless, and, moreover, she had gone too far to draw backnow. She must bring back his strength to him if she could,keeping him secretly in her house.
She opened the door and went hastily in. The lamp wasturned so low that only a tiny yellow new moon of flameshowed and turned the room into a sea of dark, on whichbulky shadows rode and stirred with the flickering of theflame. Only the mirror looked back at her with a dim,ghostly face.
On the bed Billy Angel was a black giant. He was humpedagainst the headboard, his chin on his breast, his enormousarms thrown wide. He spoke not a word, but, while shewatched him, filled with terror, she saw one great hand riseand fall, and it seemed to the girl that she was watchingthe knife driven home into the back of dead CharlesOrmond.
She wanted to flee then. The company of a dog, even,would have been a treasure, but she must remain there and dothe work that lay before her. If his voice were raised againto its last pitch, it would be strange if someone did nothear it as they passed in the street. And if a man's voicewere heard in her house at this hour, every man in Derbywould come to the rescue with weapon in hand.
She sat on the edge of the bed. The strength of hishurried, uneven panting made a slight tremor run continuallythrough the room. There was no intelligence in the roving ofhis eyes. It was the blank, wild glare of delirium that hadgiven him for the moment a false strength. That glare becamefixed upon her now, and the head of Billy Angel thrust outtoward her a little.
"Is it you, Charlie?" he asked loudly. "And are youready?"
"It's Sue Markham," said the girl, trembling. "BillyAngel, talk soft. They'll hear you in the street!"
"You're not Charlie?"
"No, no."
"You lie!" snarled out Billy Angel. "I've been waitin' atiresome time, Charlie. But I got you here now, Charlie, andI'm gonna leave you to rot here, in this cave where noman'll ever find you..."
A hand fixed on her arm with a grip like iron; she wasdrawn slowly inside the reach of his other hand. Billy Angelhad begun to laugh like a devil incarnate.
"Now, Charlie," he said, "what you got to say? I have youhere. I can break you to pieces like an orange. Where's yourstrength, Charlie? Have you turned yaller? Has the nervegone out of you? You're tremblin' like a woman..."
"Billy Angel!" cried the girl. "Don't you hear me?"
"I'll hear you beg like a coward and a sneak and a cur.Will you beg like a dog for your life, Charlie? Will youbeg?" His right hand fumbled at her throat. It was a hand ofice, and it brought the chill dread of death into hersoul.
"Billy, Billy," she gasped out, "don't kill me!"
His hand fell away. He sank back on the bed. "I knew allthe time," he said, "that you was yaller inside." His voicefell to a mumble: "But if you say you're beat... you're safefrom me this time. Until one day I'll corner you, and makeyou..." The strength crumbled out of him. He fell sidewise onthe bed and lay motionlessly.
After that, half reeling with weakness and with relief,she turned up the flame of the lamp. And then she wenttoward him as one might go toward a sleeping tiger. He wasquite unconscious. His hands, she knew, were icy cold, buthis head was fiery hot to the touch. A new fear came to her.If she called a physician, she might make sure of helpinghim from the fever, but would she not certainly be fitting arope around his neck?
She sat down by the bed to watch, telling herself thatonly if the delirium returned would she send for the doctor.And there she watched the hours out. It was a broken sleep.Often he stirred and stared and muttered to himself. Once hesat bolt erect and stared at her with terrible eyes, but hesank back again and slept once more.
It was after midnight, well after, before he settled intoa quiet slumber, the muscles of his forehead quite relaxed,and his breathing regular. Then she tried his pulse, andfound it firmer and more regular. She laid her hand lightlyon his face, and it was no longer of such burning heat. Soshe stole back to her attic room and slept out the remainderof the night.
But there was little sleep in Derby that night. Men hadsomething to think about in the recent murder, and thenorthwester had settled to a howling demon that wailed andscreamed with double force between midnight and morning.With the dawn it sank in force, but it was still whistlingfitfully when Sue Markham awakened and looked out her windowupon a dull gray sky stretched across with blacker, low-hanging clouds that threatened more snow. With what hadalready fallen, the hollows were already filled, althoughthe gale had scoured all away from the highlands and theexposed places. All was stark mud, black rocks, or thecrusted snow in the hollows. A miserable world to wakeninto, surely.
She went down to the lunchroom. It was a grisly sight toher. For some reason the squalor of the place had neverstruck home in her before. Cigarette butts were everywhere,some mere streaks of ashes and black charred places in thewood where the butts had been dropped by careless hands.Others had been fairly ground into the very texture of thefloor by wet, heavy heels. There were new smudges on thecounter where the thickly oiled jacket sleeves of thetrainmen had rested. There were half-washed dishes, too.
Then there was a trip before her to the woodshed, wadingthrough the gripping cold of the morning and through thesnow, drifted knee deep behind the fence. As she came back,her arms aching with the weight of wood, she turned her headto the east and looked down to the great valley below her.There was a break in the leaden color of the sky there tothe east. There was a streak of shining sun and gentle bluealong that eastern horizon, and in the big valley itself wasnot the sun shining brightly?
No doubt to those dwellers in a better land, looking outfrom their cozy homes, old Derby Mountain was a pure and agrand picture on this morning, his white cape lower aroundhis shoulders, and with a wreath of smoky clouds around hisbrow. How little did they know of the miseries of mountainlife.
She built the fire in the stove. It sent up first a fumeof smoke, until the draft cleared and began to pull on theflames. In the meantime, she jerked all the windows wide,and with the pure wind scouring through the place, she setto work sweeping and scrubbing with might and main, loathingherself for the work that she was compelled to do, hatingthe world for the fate that it had unjustly bestowed uponher.
Even while she worked, she wondered at herself. Thishumor had never come upon her before. She had gonecheerfully to the dull beginning of every day. But now, allwas sad effort. She told herself, mournfully, that blue daysmust follow such a night as the last one had been. But thatexplanation was not satisfactory. Something had been addedor subtracted from her existence since yesterday dawned, andshe could not yet tell what it was. But was it not, perhaps,the consciousness of the rift that had come in her oldfriendship with Jack Hopper?
So, half dreamily, half wearily she went to the kitchenand started to cook breakfast.
BUT when the water was boiling and thecoffee steaming and pouring its thin, piercing fragrancethrough the room, a joy came back to her. By the time thatshe had finished setting out the breakfast on the tray, shetold herself that this was a game worth playing more thananything she had ever done before in her life.
She bore up the tray to Billy Angel and found him lying,pale and weak, on the bed, hardly able to lift his headwhile he watched her out of dull eyes.
"Where am I?" he asked. "This ain't the jail."
"This is my room," she told him. "And I'm gonna keep careof you till you can handle yourself."
She expected a tide of protestation to come from him. Buthe merely turned a dark red and said not a word. He did noteven thank her for bringing the breakfast to him, but workedhimself slowly up on the pillows and ate the food that wasbefore him. She was half angered, half amused by his pride,and, with the amusement, there was mingled a sting of fear.As she watched his set and gloomy face she told herself,more than ever, that here was a man capable of anything.
She went back to the lunch counter. Already, about thestove, half a dozen laborers in the yards were gathered,blinking sleepily at her. She served their orders insilence, knowing well that men do not wish to talk in themorning when the steel edge of the curse of Adam is eatinginto their souls.
In the mid-morning, the wind swung sharply around to thesouthwest again, and in an hour the mountainside was coveredwith rivulets of water running down from the melting snow.By noon the report had come in that the fugitive hadprobably escaped. If he had been able to live through thebitterness of the night, he was now far away. For the horseswere unable to make any progress through the slippery slush.The sheriff, to be sure, and three helpers were workingrather blindly through the mountains, trying to pick up somesign of Billy Angel. But there was little hope of that. Allthat remained was that some outlying town might catch aglimpse of Angel as he fled toward safety.
Old Pete Allison, tending the fire in the big stove andvainly trying to make himself useful, offered a target forconversation when the breakfast time was done.
"How long'll it take them to catch this Billy Angel?" shesaid.
"Not for a long time," said Pete Allison. "Folks can'thope to run down a gent like that right offhand."
"Why not?"
"Well, we all got something comin' to us. Some folks livequiet lives for a short time. But everything is balanced up.God plans it all, I reckon."
A man must be old and must have passed through greatsorrows before he can speak of the Creator as Pete Allisondid, with a sort of gloomy surety and understanding.
"But, Pete, think of the men who simply run into abullet... and that's the end of them!"
"Because there wasn't anything left in 'em," declaredPete Allison with conviction. "When you light a candle, it'sgonna keep right on burning until the wax is all used up.Same as with a man. The minute he's born, the wax begins tobe used up. If the flame burns high, he's gonna die young.If the flame burns slow, he's gonna die old. Or, if thereain't much wax, he'll die soon. If they's a lot of wax,he'll die late."
"But when a bullet hits...?"
"Every bullet," said the old man, "is sent by theAlmighty. Dog-goned if He don't direct everything. The sinof the killin' lies with the gent that pulled the trigger,but the death is by the orderin' o' Him." He made thesestrange pronouncements in a quiet voice, not as one whoprophesied, but as one who was acquainted with the facts ofthe case.
"There was Sam Lever," said the girl. "Never was such abig, strong fellow as Sam. He fell off the cliff lastwinter..."
"He was ready to die, then. God was done with him. Youcan't tell by the outsides of a gent. The wax is on theinside. It's the heart and the soul that counts. The waxmust have been burned out of Sam Lever without us knowin'it. Look at this here Billy Angel. He's loaded with wax.Maybe he ain't gonna last long, but he'll make a darnedbright light while he's burnin'."
"Do you know him, Uncle Pete?" she asked eagerly.
"Ah," said the old man, "you're took a lot with him,ain't you? Girls is like moths. Them that burn with a brightlight attract the calico to 'em. No matter whether the flameis red or white. Well, yes, I know Billy Angel."
"What do you know about him?"
"This was ten years back. I had two arms, then, and I wasa piece of a man, anyways. I come ridin' down that trailalong Old Timber to..."
"You mean the narrow trail?"
"Six inches of rock for a hoss to walk on, and next tothat, hell is only two thousand feet away, air line! I comearound a elbow turn, with my mule steppin' halfway out intothe next world, and I come bang into a kid ridin' a mustang.Says I... 'Son, back up your pony.'
"'It ain't a pony,' says he. 'It's a hoss.'
"'Back up your hoss,' says I, 'to that wide stretchbehind you, where I can pass, and hurry it up. This heremule of mine is gettin' plumb restless.'
"'This here mustang of mine,' says he, 'don't know how toback up.' And he adds, givin' me a ugly look... 'Nor neitherdo I!'
"I looks this young brat over. He had an eye like afightin' dog's eye, sort of bright and sad-lookin', as ifwonderin' where he would get a whole handful of trouble inthe world. He has an old gun strapped onto him, and hebegins to play with the butt of it, sort of beggin' me tostart some trouble.
"'Kid,' says I, 'I'll teach your hoss to back up.'
"'Old man,' says he, 'this here hoss don't take tonobody's teachin' except mine.'
"'What d'you aim to do?' says I, sort of wonderin'.
"'Never give no inch to nobody in the world,' says hethrough his teeth.
"I couldn't help grinning, and, at that, he got white, hegot so mad. Nothin' makes a proud kid so mad as not to betook serious.
"'Do we have to fight about this?' says I to him.
"'Are you scared to?' he says to me, sneerin'.
"'Why, you little rat,' says I, gettin' sort of mad, 'hopoffen your hoss, so's, when you drop, you ain't sure tosplash yourself all over the bottom of that ravine.'
"He just tucks in his chin and laughs at me. And then Iseen red. After all, he was man-sized, and he had a man'smeanness. I got hot and grabs my gun.
"'You young fool!' says I, and jerks out my gun. What Imean to say is, that I jerkedat it. But the frontsight caught in the holster and didn't come free. And, quickas a wink, I found myself lookin' straight into the muzzleof a Colt, and that kid's hand was as steady as murder,lemme tell you! I could see myse'f about an inch fromkingdom come. Then, he drops his gun back into theholster.
"'Partner,' says he, as sweet as you please, 'you had amite of bad luck. I guess that's a new gun.' And, sayin'that, he backs his mustang as slick as a circus rider over aledge that wasn't fit for the hoss to walkforwardon. So he comes to the wide place and waits for me topass.
"'There ain't no bad feelin's?' I says, goin' pasthim.
"He gives me a grin as broad as the moon. 'None in theworld!' says he, and I knew that he meant it.
"Well, sir, he was a fine-lookin' kid, straight as ayoung pine, strong as the devil, quick as a lightnin' flash.I never seen a pair of black eyes that looked so straightand had so much fire in 'em. And that was Billy Angel. Eversince then, I been waitin' for an explosion back in thehills. And now it's come."
She listened to this tale with a painful interest,dwelling upon every word of it. "But what else do you knowabout him?"
"That's all. That's enough. You could live elbow to elbowwith a gent for a year and never know as much about him as Ifound out about Billy Angel in them thirty seconds. Afterthat I knew he was mean and proud enough to fight a army ofgiants, and kind enough to jump into a river to save a catthat was drownin'. I knew that he was able to burn a town,if he had a spite at the folks in it, or else he was capableof riskin' his life to keep it from burning. That's enoughto know. The rest is only that he was an orphan and that hewas brung up by his uncle, Ormond."
"But to have killed his own cousin!"
"Girl, I ain't said that he was a good man. I been sayin'that he was a strong one."
"Stabbin' him in the back?"
"That sort of looks like a stickler for me. But, afterall, he looked pretty near ready for anything even when hewas a kid. He might have turned sort of sour when he growedup. But what I say is that they ain't gonna capture him nonetoo easy. His wax ain't burned out yet."
"Tom Kitchin is a smart man," said the girltentatively.
"Him? He'll break Tom Kitchin between his fingers... likethat. Tom Kitchin? He ain'tnothin' to a gentlike that young feller."
Such was the opinion of Pete Allison. And he was not atalkative old man, which gave the more weight to his ideas.As for the girl, she locked up each one of his words in herbreast and pored upon his sayings in her spare moments as ifthey had been Bible talk.
Those spare moments came few and far between to her. Inthe days that followed she was extraordinarily busy. Forwork is slowly accomplished when half of one's mind is onsomething else, and that was the case with Sue Markham. Shecould not help thinking of her gigantic protégé in the roomupstairs—her own room, brightly touched up with colorhere and there, an incongruous setting for huge BillyAngel.
For three days he did not seem to gain at all. He grewactually thinner in the face. But then he changed. Everyhour, almost, made an alteration in him for the better.
In those days, she found that she was not taking a singlestep toward a better understanding of him. When she cameinto the room, he did not speak, and he answered her directquestions with monosyllables. He took the food that she gavehim without thanks. He refused the books that she brought tohim to pass away the long hours of his imprisonment.Instead, he seemed to prefer to lie flat on his back,staring at the ceiling.
What thoughts went through his mind at such times asthese? In the dull, weary hours of the day, was hedetermining to leave the course of lawbreaking on which hehad embarked, or was he resolving more wickedness? In spiteof herself, she could not help feeling that the latter wasthe truth. Silence is always more or less dreadful, and hissilences seemed particularly so. She never went through thedoor into that room without a paling of her cheeks and aquickening of her heart, as though she were stepping into atiger's lair. A dozen times, when she passed the cheerfulface of Tom Kitchin or the thoughtful one of Jack Hopper,the engineer, she was on the verge of calling in the law totake this ominous care off her hands.
Then all her fears were redoubled by a most strangehappening.
STEVE CARNEY returned to town. Steve wasthe brightest star in the village of Derby. His father hadbeen a fireman of long standing whose wits were a little toodull for him to advance to the trusted post of engineer incharge of a train. However, he was a man full of honestlabor, and to the day of his death he had a greatcompensation for his own lack of brains, and that was thesurpassing intelligence of his son, young Steven. In theschool, Steve stood at the head of his class, and, when hehad finished the grammar school's eight terms, he went on tohigh school, and, when high school was ended, it was theplan of the honest fireman to send Steve to college. Forthat purpose he had saved a considerable sum of money, but,in the very summer after the boy's graduation, the fatherdied—a death brought on, to some extent, by thewretched life to which he had condemned himself in order tolay by the more money for the sake of his son.
When that money came into the hands of Steve himself, hedecided that he would take the rest of his education by ashort cut in the ways of the world. He left Derby,therefore, in the beginning of his eighteenth year and wasgone nearly a twelvemonth, at the end of which time hereturned somewhat out at elbow but with a new light in hiseyes. The very first night after his arrival, falling into apoker game, he walked away with all the money in the party,and the town of Derby was forced to admit that Steve's yearof education had been by no means wasted. The admirableSteven then remained only a short time in Derby in order, asthe old stories have it, to recruit his spirits, beforeadventuring further.
But when he had renewed his depleted stock of money andwhen he had engaged in a knife fight and a gunfight, in bothof which he came out unscathed, something prompted him toleave Derby for parts unknown. He left half an hour after aband of determined men with shotguns under their arms andwith lariats handy for various uses called at the door ofhis father's shack, which Steve had inherited, of course. Hewas not seen in town again for another year, and this time,when he returned, it was in a condition that made men forgethis errors of the previous visit. Money flowed like waterfrom his hands, and he brought a warmth of good cheer withhim that penetrated to the farthest limits of the town.
He remained a mere fortnight, and then left as suddenlyas he had come. Two years later he was back, this time outat elbow again, with a leaner, harder face, but still withan air of deathless, boyish good nature in his eyes. Evenmen who shook their heads at him could not but admire him.He stayed in Derby on this occasion long enough to join thesheriff—Tom Kitchin, serving his first term—andrun to earth those famous Greening brothers, whose atrociousmurders had terrorized the mountains for two years. In theircapture, the quick gun and the steady aim and the coolcourage of young Steven Carney had taken the leading part,as even the sheriff was the first to admit. Then, after aprofitable evening of poker, Steve was away again.
He was gone for a year and a half, and now, at last, hecame back, and the noise of his coming was the first newsthat greeted the ears of Sue Markham when she came down inthe morning to clean up the lunch counter and build the firein the stove.
"He got in around midnight," said Pete Allison,stretching his one hand toward the humming stove.
"Who got in?" asked the girl.
"But he woke up some of the boys and they had a powwowtogether."
"Who was it, Pete?"
"He's been around a good bit of the world this time,"declared the old man, still disregarding her direct questionin an irritating fashion. "This time he took a drop out intothe ocean. He's seen Samoa. He's seen New Zealand. He's beenover to the Solomons, too. Lookin' mighty brown and thin,but handsome and clever as ever."
"Pete Allison, who might you be talkin' about?"
"Wonder to me," said Pete Allison, "that nobody don'tmarry him. He's the sort that turns the heads of the girls.I guess he ain't found a nobody yet with money enough tosuit him. And he'd take a pretty rich one to bring him moremoney'n he could spend, I reckon."
"Ah," murmured the girl, "you're talking about SteveCarney."
"Who else? You look like you'd sort of be glad to see himag'in?" queried Allison sharply.
"He'd never remember me," she said, and blushed.
"There it is, there it is!" The veteran sighed. "He ain'tbeen hung yet, and so all the girls is anxious to throwthemselves at his head. If he was an honest clerk in anoffice, or if he was a conductor on a train, or an engineertakin' Two Forty-Nine over the grade every other day, wouldthey be settin' their caps at him so much? Not they. Buthe's all afire, and he's all a-burnin' up, so the girls cansee him, and bust their hearts out to get to him and burntheir wings on the flame."
"Nonsense," said the girl haughtily. "I've looked twiceat him... and I never will!"
Pete Allison shook his head. He added: "They say thatSteve has a roll of bills that would make a meal for acow."
Steve himself came into the lunch counter at noon. He saton a stool with his hat pushed back on his head and hismischievous blue eyes laughing at her. And when she askedafter his travels, he told her absurd fables.
"What's in the Solomon Islands, Steve?" she askedhim.
"They got their name after the king of them. He's an oldbronco with a bald head and a white beard that comes down tothe fat wrinkles in his waist."
"Wrinkles in his waist?" she cried.
"He's bare to his middle," said Steve Carney. "And helooks so much like Solomon must have looked that people callhim King Solomon and the islands are the SolomonIslands."
"Steve Carney!" she exclaimed. "What a thing to say! Butwhat sort of people are there on the islands, really?"
"Cannibals, mostly."
"Steve!" She threw up her hands, and he grinned andchuckled at her. "I don't believe that you were ever nearthe islands," she declared.
"I was, though. The king and me was pals."
"Did you really know him?"
"Of course I did. He gave me this for a souvenir the dayI left." He pulled out a long knife with a blade ofbeautiful steel, worked into wavy curves, a marvelous and adreadful weapon. It was fitted with a hilt of antique goldwork and set with a multitude of small pearls to roughen thehandle.
"Why, it must be worth a lot, Steve."
"He would've given me more than that. He wanted to giveme a couple of his wives, Sue. All I would have to do therest of my life was to lie on the flat of my back under apalm tree while one wife waved the flies away with a branchand the other fed me coconuts."
"Every word is made up. Why should he want to do so muchfor you?"
"Because I brought in more than any missionary everdid."
"You mean you gave him something?"
"Yep. Something that keeps all the natives busy everyevening."
"What was it?"
"Dice," said the incorrigible.
They laughed together over this.
"Did you like it?"
"It was a good place to swim," said Steve thoughtfully."But I got lonely there."
"You're never lonely, Steve. You make company whereveryou go. I've heard a hundred men say that."
"Men are the small half of things, Sue. I was lonely fora girl, d'you see? A girl back here in the mountains."
She was hushed with interest. One did not readily imaginethe unconquerable Steve Carney falling in love. It was very,very strange. She lowered her voice as she asked: "Does shelive near Derby?"
He thought a moment: "Pretty near," he said at last,nodding.
"Steve! Do I know her?"
"I think you do, pretty well."
"But what's her name, Steve?"
"Sort of an ordinary name. It's Sue."
She started; she stared. But no, this could not be, andhis blue eye was fastened upon her with a perfectindifference, a perfect gravity.
"Really? Sue? I don't know anybody else by that name, Ithink. What's her last name, Steve?"
"Her last name is Markham."
"Stupid!" she cried, growing very red. "I was an idiotnot to see... you'll never stop your joking, Steve!"
"Does it sound like a joke?"
"A mighty poor one."
"Ah," he said, "I think it's a mighty poor joke.But if you'd take it more serious and sort of let it trickleinto the insides of you... would it be so bad?"
He made no effort to touch her, or even to lean closer toher. There was nothing of the melted calf in his eyes. Theywere as bright, as cold, as blue as ever. But all of thesardonic mirth was gone from around his mouth. He became,for the moment, nothing of the mischievous boy, but all man,eager, purposeful.
"I've only seen you a few times, Sue," he said. "Andstill we know each other pretty well, I guess. I know you.God understands that there ain't much that's hard to read inyou. It's all clear as a crystal. And you know one half ofme. The whole world does. That's the bad half. I neversneaked behind corners and tried to hide myself. I let themsee me the way that I am. Well, Sue, there's something in mebesides the fool and the cardsharper. I've been playing, youunderstand? While Dad was living, I had to work hard forhim. He wanted to see me get on. He wanted to see me advancea lot. He wanted to see me talk book English and lead myclasses and get to be a lawyer or something indoors andsoft-handed, like that. His idea of a gentleman was spatsand a cane.
"Well, I swallered what was really in me till he died.Then it all busted out. I didn't even know that it wasthere. But I would have exploded, I think. I had to breakloose. Idid break loose. I've been runnin' aroundever since. Well, finally I'm through with my fling. I'vemade a little pile. A good many thousands, Sue. I got ithere with me. Someday I want you to count it. I got enoughhere to settle down to some kind of business. I don't carewhat, so long as it keeps me up here in the mountains, yousee? Y'understand, Sue? I don't want you to say a thing now.But if you don't mind, put this thought in your pocket and,when I'm gone, take it out and look it over. Maybe you'lltake it more serious. Then in a couple of days, I'll comeback and talk to you again. Most likely you'll say... 'It'sa bad idea, I'm afraid. I could never love you, Steve.'Well, I'll not cry. But whatever happens, I know that youain't gonna laugh at me or talk about me behind my back.That's why I could come straight to you and talk out withoutno dodging around corners. I'd hate to do that. A fellow hasto do what they want. He has to laugh when they want tolaugh. He has to dance when they want to dance, and sit downwhen they want to sit. He pleases them till he gets 'emunder lock and key, and, after that,they got to dothe steppin' around. But, Sue, if you was ever to come intomy house, you and me would be partners fair and square.Well, so long."
He stood up; he raised his hat. But presently he cameback from the door to where she was tracing invisiblepatterns on the surface of the counter with the tip of herfinger.
"About the way that I've been roaming around," he said."I've done some pretty bad things. The money I've got in mypocket is gambled money. But I've taken my chances fair andsquare. I've never beat a man out of a penny with crookedcards, no matter what they say about me. And, Sue, if youwas to ask me, serious, I'd tell you every step I've takensince I first left Derby... every step!"
With that, he walked out of the lunch counter and waswhistling and turning up the collar of his coat as shewatched him dimly through the frosted windowpane working hisway down the street against a half gale.
He was gone, but his work remained behind him. It seemedto the girl that the four walls of the room had been brokenout, and that her eye now roamed across the world through avast perspective, seeing all things clearly, heart and bodyand soul. She roamed in spirit as Steve Carney had roamed.She did not know whether or not she loved him; shedid know that his frank homage made her feel like aqueen.
IN such times, women cannot think. They canonly pass pictures through their minds, and compare them,feature by feature. So it was with Sue Markham. The keen,handsome face of Steven Carney she kept, as it were, in theone eye, and the dark and honest countenance of Jack Hopperarose in the other. But Jack Hopper could maintain thatcomparison for a very instant only. Then he faded, truly,into nothingness, and never again could his eyes trouble theeyes of Sue.
She knew it with a little shudder. For Jack Hopper,during these recent years, had been looming larger andlarger upon her mental horizon, walking big upon her mind,like a figure with a low sun behind it. He had cast theshadow of his presence about her feet like fate, and she hadbeen on the point of surrendering to him, not because sheloved him, but because she felt, oddly, that he deservedthis and more—that she was honored unduly by the loveof such a man. He had a right to a good home. If he choseher to make it, she must not resist his will. For sixmonths, now, she had known that, if he asked her to be hiswife, she would have to say yes. She had never seen himwithout the dread of that approaching moment falling uponher.
But now the danger was gone. Jack Hopper did not exist,and the fire in the clear, steady eyes of the gambler wasthe thing that had banished him. For that, she was gratefulto Steven. She cast about her for a second figure by whichshe should compare Steve Carney with that which her souldemanded of a man. And of all the scores who had met her andknown her and flirted with her, some gaily, some sadly, somesternly, there was only one, she found, who had stepped farenough past the gates of her heart to be worth the counting.To her own astonishment, it was the face and the form ofBilly Angel who arose in her mind's eye, now, to becontrasted, little by little, with Steve Carney himself. Itwas the big man who lay in her room at this very moment.
It staggered her, this revelation of herself. It was asthough she had turned the corner of a familiar street andfound that a palace or a pit was revealed in the well-knownpath before her. So was it to Sue Markham, finding thisunsuspected thing in herself.
Yes, there was Billy Angel strongly entrenched in herimagination. His bold, black eyes looked keenly back to her,looked cruelly back to her, looked with a scorn and with amockery, so it seemed, that made a little flush of angerrise to her face. It could not be, indeed. She could neverseriously consider this brute.
Yet, in spite of herself, she must. She closed her eyes.If Billy Angel had sat before her at the counter and spokento her as Steven Carney had done, what would she haveanswered? She could not tell. But of this she was certain,that she could not have maintained perfect silence, as shehad done with Steve. She would have been too much afraid ofhim.
She went up to her room to see the man face to face, andto convince herself that there was nothing godlike abouthim—that there was only a great physical strength inthe man—that and no more. When she entered, she foundthat he was seated before her mirror, shaving himself. Bythat, she knew that he had been prying through her effectsuntil he had come, at last, to the little old chest in thecloset where the last mementoes of her father were kept and,among other things, this old, horn-handled razor.
She flushed and bit her lip with shame and anger. Asthough, indeed, the search of Billy Angel could haverevealed something shameful concerning herself—asthough that search of his hands could have given him toogreat an insight into the hidden corners of her verymind.
He was only half shaven. He turned to her, looked at herin silence, and then faced the glass again, intent upon hiswork. It was as though she were not in the room! There wasno apology for the thing that he had done, unforgivable andcrude as that had been. He took it for granted—tookeverything for granted—as he had done since the firstmoment when she brought him to succor.
She had read, somewhere, of kings who performed theirvery toilet in public—to whose dressing and undressinggreat nobles lent their reverent attention and their silentinterest. The big-backed man in front of the mirror was likethat. He proceeded with his work as though there werenothing better or more absorbingly worthwhile for her to dothan to stand patiently by and watch him.
She flushed again; again she bit her lip. He was hummingas he worked. Then he paused to wipe some of the lather fromthe razor blade on a bit of paper. Without turning to her,he said: "D'you know that song?"
"I never heard it before."
"Sam Curran brought it up from Mexico. I dunno what itmeans, either. But it's a funny lingo, eh? And a funnytune."
She had never seen him so gay and so communicative.Now, she thought to herself,I shall draw from himall of the colors out of which I shall draw a picture of himso black that I shall never again be troubled comparing himwith that wild and knightly spirit, Steven Carney!
"What Curran is that?" she asked.
"You must have heard of him. He was pretty well known, Iguess, before he died."
"How did he die?"
"Hank Lang got him in a wheat field down in the valleyand killed him with a load of buckshot. You remember?"
"I remember. Did you know him, Billy?"
"Know him? I'd tell a man. He was a friend of mine. Hetaught me how to use a knife." With that, he puffed out hisupper lip, and began the critical work of running the razoredge over the curved, stiff surface. But all her blood hadturned to ice. That he should have dared to mention such athing—he the murderer—he the man who had stabbedthe son of his benefactor in the back with a knife!
"Curran," she said, "murdered Chuck Marshall?"
The big man nodded. His answer was half stifled, for theshaving still went on. Nothing could have been morenoncommittal than his tone. "He done it on a bet. It waseasy, I guess."
She went to the window and looked out. She dared not facethis man for fear some of her anger and her disgust shouldappear in her eyes. So she looked forth upon the world,playing with the string of the window shade and aware thatBilly Angel had cleansed the blade of the razor again andthat he was now stropping it upon the large, pale palm ofhis hand. How white it seemed—how soft. Yet she knewthat hand could be iron, filled with the strength of agiant. And the old fear thrilled through her, the halfterrible, half delightful fear.
"Billy Angel!" she cried. And she whipped around uponhim. He did not turn. Only, in the mirror, she could see himlift his lordly brows a little.
"Well?" he said.
She swallowed her fury. "Nothing," she said, and turnedhastily back to the window.
Now, in a stroke, he finished the shaving. He had beengoing slowly ahead with it, the moment before. Each bit ofthe work had seemed to require the utmost care and patience.It had been like sculptor's work when the outer shell ofstone is off, and he is working near the very flesh of hissubject. But now, at his will, without the slightest hurry,but with a certain large ease, the shaving wasfinished—in a gesture, so to speak.
He dipped the end of his towel in the pail of water andbegan to cleanse his face. She had seen him, recently, onlythrough a blackening stubble of whiskers, but now she sawhis real self. How like a very god of beauty the man was!Sickness and weakness had refined the lines of hiscountenance. All was largely and yet precisely drawn. No,compared with this fellow, so far as the mere looks went,Steve Carney did not exist.
"You was aimin' to tell me something," said BillyAngel.
"Nothing."
"I heard you start. You was peeved about something."
"I? Not at all!"
"Well," he said, "all right. I ain't curious."
"You're not fit to get out of bed like this," she toldhim.
"What I'm not fit for don't count," he told her. "What Igot to do is the important thing."
"Such as what?"
"Nothin' but leavin' this house today."
"Billy Angel!"
"Well?"
"You... why, it's turning to a storm today."
"Is it? That's no matter."
"Leave this house?"
"I said that."
"For what?"
"A little job that needs doin', that's all."
"Billy, are you crazy? You... you can hardly walk!"
"I can walk fine," he told her calmly.
"Let me see you, then."
"Proof, eh?"
"Yes. I dare you to walk across the room... withoutstaggering. I dare you to walk straight across theroom!"
He shook his head, smiling, and then a little shadow ofperversity crossed his face. "Why," he said, "I'll do it,then." He paused for a moment, serious, almost abstracted,and she could almost feel the effort by which he gatheredhis will, and with that will controlled and summoned thestrength of his body. After that, he stood up from thechair, walked with a light step across the room, and stoodabove her. She was amazed. It was, indeed, like a work ofenchantment.
"Now," he said, "what's been worryin' you?"
"Nothing, Billy."
"Speak out true," he commanded. When she turned from him,shaking her head, he took her by the shoulder and made herconfront him again. Once again, her anger flamed furiously,and once again, and as always, the anger turned cold infear. "You come here to say something. You busted in likeyou had something on your mind."
"I wondered, after I came in, how you happened to findDad's razor."
"I seen his box... I opened it, and I got what I needed.But that ain't what I asked."
"Why... there was only a bit of news, I thought you mightlike to know."
"What's that? Has anything been found out?"
"About you?"
"No, no! Not about me. God knows that I don't matter. Butabout... well, nothing."
Here was a new sidelight thrown upon his mind, and itfairly dazzled her by all of its connotations. There wassomething, then, in spite of his nature that seemed sopurely self-centered that had actually responded to thetroubles of another. There was something in this world thathe valued more than he valued the safety and the comfort ofhimself. She would not have believed it from any otherlips.
"There's no news about you," she said slowly, andwondering at him.
"Well, well," he said, sighing. "About what, then?" Helowered himself into the chair beside the window. The powerin his legs seemed to have gone, first of all. He hadgripped the back of the chair with his large hand, and so,the floor creaking under his weight, he had lowered himselfto the seat.
She could realize, now, by exactly what an immense effortof the will he had been able to bring himself to do thisthing. By such an effort did men rise from the cockpit andrush to work the guns of a sinking battleship. By such aneffort the dying avoided death!
"Why," said the girl, with a thrill of admiration and ofdisarming pity creeping through her, "I only thought thatyou'd be glad to know that Steve Carney is back. But maybeyou don't even know him."
"I know him. Yes, I've heard of Steve Carney."
"He's come back rich, they say."
"Ah?"
"D'you know him well enough to really care?"
"They's money in cards," said the big man grimly. "Moremoney than there is in dynamite... or in guns, I guess. Howmuch did he get this time? Do you know?"
"Enough to buy a ranch and fix it up in style. Enough tomarry and settle down... they say."
"Enough to marry?" said Billy Angel. "Well, for a gentlike Steve Carney I s'pose that's quite a lot."
"His poor dad," she said, hastily turning the question,"it's a good thing that he's not alive to see what Steve hasbecome. I remember how he used to stand there..."
"Is that little shack... the Carney cottage?"
"Of course."
"Well," said the other, and, turning his back on her, herose, struggled feebly across the room, and lay down on thebed—rather, he fell along with the crash.
She ran to him, filled with terror. "Billy Angel!"
He did not answer her. His face was perfectly white.Utter exhaustion had taken all the blood from it and lefthim a deadly mask to look upon.
"Billy, do you hear me?"
He made a little gesture with his hand, as though tosignify that he heard her, but that he did not wish to bedisturbed at this moment.
"Can I get you anything?"
He shook his head a little. "I'm comin' through fine.Only... don't bother me now. Lemme be alone in peace."
Such an answer for her kindness. She flung out of theroom, but at the door she paused again. No, no matter whathappened to him, she would not waste further time andfurther thought upon such a brute. But when she wasdownstairs again, her soul melted suddenly. She filled a cupof hot black coffee—it was the dregs of thepot—the sort of coffee that he liked—a brew thatwould have taken the lining from the throat of an ordinaryman. Up the stairs she scurried with the cup until shereached the door of her room, and tried the knob. It waslocked!
"Billy!" she called guardedly.
But there was not a sound from the room.
IN the first moment of panic, she felt surethat he had collapsed along the floor—after lockingthe door. Perhaps at that very moment he was dead, for hewas very weak—terribly weak. Nothing but the mostdauntless strength of mind had enabled him to rise from thebed and do such a simple thing as shave himself. The bloodhe had lost from the wound in his arm had been a far morevital drain than she had dreamed.
Yet, as she stood there, balancing in her mind pity forhim and fear, there was almost an equal fire of anger inher. How had he dared to treat her as he had done, as thoughshe were simply an unnecessary encumbrance upon him. Shereviewed, little by little, his actions since she hadentered his room that morning, and she found them allequally intolerable. A devil either of impudence or ofbrutality possessed the man. Only one genial recollectionremained of him, and that was the manner in which he hadvigorously protested and even resisted with all of his dyingstrength, when she had first told him that he must stay withher until he was healed. What he had said then, however,seemed like a voice from the grave. The living reality ofhim spoke in far other terms.
In the meantime, there was nothing to do but let him havehis own way. If he chose to remain there with the doorlocked, through some idiotic notion of the brain, she wouldlet him be. Hunger, before long, would make him set wide thedoor.
Several hours, however, passed, and there was no signfrom him. Then she went up to the door again and poundedupon it. There was no answer. Or if there were one, it wasso faint that it was lost in the steady roaring of the rain.A southeast wind had brought the rain in the mid-morning,and since that time it had increased momentarily, falling asonly mountain rains can fall. That is to say, it camebucketing down in headlong torrents, one moment; the next,the wind seemed to have eddied to another and opposite pointof the compass from which it threw a spray, driving andstinging.
Or, again, the rain rushed down in immense, horizontaldrifts, each smashing against the roofs of the town withthunder, then walking away and leaving a moment ofcomparative silence before the next crashing downpour. Thegirl listened for a time to the steady progress of thiswalking storm. But still there was not a murmur from theroom. She even squinted through the keyhole, but all shecould see, at the farther side of the room, was a flashingbit of the mirror, with nothing before it. She put her earto the rather deep crack at the bottom of the door. Shecould hear nothing except the strange and ghostly echoesthat the rain sent to and fro in the chamber within, likewandering, senseless steps.
She went down to the main floor of the building, again,full of trouble. This convinced her that, in spite ofherself, she cared a great deal for this Billy Angel. Forthe sake of the work and the care that she had invested inhim, if for no other reason—and she vowed to herselfthat there could be no other reason—she could not seehim cast away without a pang. And the two images had neverleft her from the early morning. She saw the faces sharplycontrasted—the gambler and the alleged murderer.Although all her reason told her that there was nocomparison between Steve Carney and this wild man out of themountains, yet she knew that he had as great a grip upon heras Carney himself. The more she strove to argue herself outof this emotion, the deeper it settled in her.
There was no pause in the rain. Instead, it actuallyincreased, dropping in thick torrents that penciled the airwith even lines of gray and turned midday into deepesttwilight. When the mist was rubbed from the windows, shelooked out upon mountains from which every vestige of thesnow was gone. From the windows of the nearest house, shesaw the yellow shining of the lamps.
There were half a dozen people in the room, not lunchers,but gossips gathered around the stove—and then thenext crash struck Derby. Trouble was about this month. Theannouncer of this stroke of misfortune was none other thanSteven Carney. He came quietly into the lunchroom. One handwas wrapped in his handkerchief. He had a faint little smileon his lips. But his eyes were brilliant with a threateninglight.
"Partners," he said in his quiet way, but with his glancegoing over them swiftly and steadily, "is there anybody herethat knows a tall fellow... about six feet three... withshoulders big enough for two... a fast man with a gun...with a very pale face and a sort of a sick look abouthim?"
"Billy Angel!" cried Sue Markham, the words bursting fromher lips of their own force.
"Ah," said Steve. "You know him, Sue?"
"Billy Angel!" cried the others, getting their breathagain.
"What about him?" asked Steve Carney.
"He's the man who murdered Charlie Ormond!"
"Murdered?" repeated Carney, lifting his brows alittle.
"Stabbed him in the back!"
"It's not the same man, then. This gent don't have tostab in the back. He stood up to me and beat me to thedraw... and, when he might've sent a slug of lead through myhead, he simply shot the gun out of my hand!" He raised hisbandaged hand, spotted with significant red. "Then," headded, "he cleaned me out. What I want to know is... wherecan I find him? I want another word with him. My hand ain'thurt too bad to handle a gun right now."
"He robbed you, Steve?" cried the girl.
"Clean as a whistle," said Steve Carney. He set histeeth, but still he forced himself to smile at her.
"The sheriff will be a wild man when he hears aboutthis," said someone. "Get Tom Kitchin now. Tom will nabhim... he can't get far away through all of this mud."
Three or four hurried out to find Tom Kitchin. The restdrew in a close group around Steve Carney to inquire aftermore details of the affair. He told them smoothly, withoutundue excitement.
"I was trying to fix a lamp so's I could read by it...the morning was so dark. Something stepped into my doorway.I looked up and seen this big fellow that you call BillyAngel. A fine-looking man, I'll tell you! He nodded tome.
"'You're Steve Carney?' he says to me.
"'I'm Carney,' says I. 'Who might you be, stranger?'
"'The rest of 'em,' says he, 'will tell you my nameafterward, if there's any afterwards for you, Carney. Irather doubt it.'
"'You've got a grudge ag'in' me?' says I.
"'Ag'in' your pocketbook,' says he. 'I hear it's prettyfat.'
"'Robbery, then?' says I, and I looked across the roomwhere my gun was hanging on the wall... no more use to methan if it had been a hoe. He seen where I'd looked.
"'This'll be a fair break for you, Carney,' says he.'You've got your money by crooked cards.'
"'That's a lie,' says I, making a jump for him.
"'Maybe so,' says he, flashing a weapon on me. 'I'm hereto let my gun do the talkin' for me. Not to argue a pointwith you. This is a fairer break than you ever give anybodywith your cards. Go get your gun. We'll fight fair.'
"He says this with the chimin' of the clock in theMcGoortys' house just bustin' in once to say the half hour.I went over to the wall and got my gun out of the holster. Ifiggered on what my chance would be in makin' a quick turnand tryin' a snap shot at him. But somehow I figgered outthat it wouldn't be no use. He looked like the kind thatain't took by surprise easy. I turned around to him.
"'Are you ready?' says I.
"'We heard that clock strike pretty clear,' says he.'We'll wait till it strikes the hour. At the first noise ofit, you're free to blaze away, son.'
"He says that, and then he slides down into a chair andlets his head fall back against the wall. His eyes was halfclosed. He looked pretty sick, just then. His face gotwhiter, too. I wouldn't've been surprised if he'd fainted. Isat down opposite him. So long as he wanted to fight fair,when he could've sent a bullet through my back plumb easy alittle while back, there wasn't anything for me to do exceptto stand pat and give him his second chance at me, with aneven break.
"That half hour took as long in rolling by as though ithad been half a year. Ten times I thought it was strikin',and ten times I made a pass for my gun, but Billy Angel, ifthat's his name, he didn't pay no attention. He just laythere in his chair, watchin' me with a sick sort of a smile,not sayin' a word, with his eyes only a slit open. Mightyweak and flabby was how he looked just then.
"Then the clock struck, and the sound of it sort of gaveme a shock, I can tell you. I jerked out my gun. I'm notslow on a draw. I spend my time practicing the same as mostof you boys do, and I've never left off that practice nomatter where in the world I might be. But I had no choiceag'in' him. I might as well tell you plain and frank... hebeat me to the draw as easy as I'd snap my fingers. And whenhe shot, he shot at the gun in my hand, not at me. Itknocked the gun clean across the room.
"'I certainly do hope I ain't smashed up your hand,' hesays as cool as the devil.
"I looked down and seen that there was only a small cutbetween the thumb and the forefinger.
"'I'm all right,' says I.
"'You can hand over your wallet, then,' says he.
"I gave it to him.
"'Now,' says he, 'there's two things left for me to do.One is that I can tie you hand and foot so's you can't move,and the other is for you to give me your word that you won'tmake a move out of this shack for five minutes.'
"It sort of took me back, hearin' him talk about trustingme.
"'Do you mean that?' I says.
"'I mean it,' says he.
"'Well, then,' says I, 'I don't hanker to be tied up likea chicken for market. I'll give you my word.'
"I took out a watch and laid it on the table.
"'All right,' says he. 'In five minutes you can raise anoise. That's all I need for fadin' away.'
"And that was the way he left me. Except that, when hestarted away through the mud, it seemed to me that he sortof wobbled a mite, as though he found the goin' pretty hardfor him. If that's Billy Angel, I'll lay you a hundreddollars to a nickel that he's been sick pretty recent."
Such was the narrative of the gambler, concluded just asthe sheriff rushed into the room. He went straight toCarney. "Is this true, Steve?" he asked. "Is this true, thatthat devil, Billy Angel, went in and cleaned you out?"
"As true as I'm standing here."
"We'll have him in half an hour!" cried the sheriff. "Hecan't have gotten far. Boys, are you with me?"
They were already in their slickers. Now they stormed outof the room behind the sheriff. In the street they werejoined by other voices. The whole town was up to apprehendthe criminal. And the girl remained alone, listening, again,to the rain. It would not have been difficult, after all,she decided. Angel had simply climbed out of the window andthen down the roof over the kitchen until he could drop fromthe lower edge of it to the ground. She must get into theroom and make sure. She took a hammer and ran up the stairs,determined to batter in the lock to her door, but when shelaid her hand upon the knob, it yielded at once, and,stepping into the room, she found Billy Angel in personstretched upon her bed.
IMPULSES of rage and of scorn rushedthrough her brain so fast that she could not act upon one ofthem. First she decided to denounce him to his face. Thenshe was of a mind to run down the stairs and call back themen of Derby to come at once and capture the fellow. Afterthat, she decided to get only one man, Steven Carneyhimself, to come to the room and destroy the villain.
No, for one man could not do it. She realized, lookingdown on him, that even limp and weak as he was, he wasdangerous, and the steady black eyes looked up to her nowwithout a trace of emotion. He showed neither shame norremorse. His color, which was a very sick white, did notalter in the least. At this, something of awe came overher.
"Billy Angel," she said to him, "you've robbed my friend,Steve Carney."
He nodded.
"You've robbed him becauseI told you that he hadmoney!"
He nodded again, and his complaisance infuriated her.
"Why don't I call them up here to take you? Ishall call them in." She turned toward the door.
"Nope," he said, "I guess that you won't call 'emin."
She turned back to hear his reasons. "Why not? I'vetreated you like a brother. And now you turn on me like...like a traitor! What keeps me from turning you over to thelaw?"
"About three things, I figger," he said.
"Really? What three, if you please!"
"First, because it would mean a lot of shootin' andbloodshed, and this here furniture would get pretty badlyspoiled... that's the reason."
"It's no reason at all!"
"Then you ain't so anxious to have folks know that youbeen takin' care of a murderer all these days."
"Ah, coward!" she cried. "Do you count on my shame andtake advantage of that?"
"I take advantage of anything," he said, watching herwithout emotion. "The third thing is that you've sort of akindly feeling to me, in spite of what you say."
She was paralyzed with fury. It is odd that one shouldguard the emotions as such sacred things. It is pleasant toreveal them oneself; it is hideous sacrilege to have themrevealed by another. That he should have discovered herweakness for him immediately wiped out any virtue that hemight have. She told herself in a white rage that she hatedhim and everything about him. So, staring at him for aninstant, wide-eyed, she hesitated, trying to find words.Words would not do, she decided. She whirled to the door,but, as she reached it, a long arm, thick with musclestretched before it. Her rush carried her against it. It waslike striking against a wall. In some mysterious manner hehad managed to slip from the bed and reach the door in asingle leap. A noiseless movement, like a cat's.
"Let me go!" she cried.
He brushed her back, gently, irresistibly. He closed thedoor behind him, locked it, and took out the key, which hedropped in his pocket.
"I'll shout out the window," she assured him, her voicelow and earnest with her passion.
"Would they hear you through the rain?" he asked her.
"I'll... I'll..."
"Well?"
That terse, unsympathetic word broke down all of herstrength, for like a rush of light it revealed to herperfectly her own impotence. She broke into tears and leanedagainst the wall with her face cupped in her hands.
"All right," he said. "I was sort of worried for amoment."
She heard ajingle on the floor. Then he recrossedthe room and, reaching the bed, lay down on it. Shediscovered that he had thrown the key at her feet. Itbewildered her. Why he should have thrust her back from thedoor one instant, and the next presented to her the means ofleaving the room at her will, was most strange. It was asthough he had dared to look into her heart once more and hadseen that there was nothing remaining to be feared inher.
And she, looking inward into her soul of souls, saw thathe was right. Her fury had changed to sorrow that any mancould so repay good with evil as he had repaid her. That thevery friend she had pointed out to him should have beenselected as the next prey, and that then he should have hadthe effrontery to return to her very room for shelter!
She had no longer the sharp fury at her command thatcould make her betray even this evildoer. He had seen it.Perhaps her very tears had been enough to reveal to him allthat he cared to know. She looked across at him as he laystretched on the bed. Wonder and hatred and awe and griefwere mingled so inextricably in her mind that she could onlysnatch up the key and flee from the room. Before she wentdown, she stood at a window and let the cold, wet air blowin upon her face. Then she went down.
Of course, Billy Angel had not been found, and the trailthat had been picked up from the shack of Steven Carney hadmerely led back into the town, a strange thing thatdumbfounded everyone. For, with only five minutes to escapebefore the alarm was raised, certainly it seemed that everyminute was very precious to him and he would try to put amile between him and the pursuit in that interval. However,as Steve Carney himself suggested, that move back into thevillage was a mere feint. The instant he was out of sight hehad doubled back for the hills. Yet there were someincredulous ones who swore that someone in the village mustbe playing the friend to Billy Angel and shielding him fromdiscovery.
The sheriff was a desperate man. Never before in hisreign had the law been so openly defied. He made thelunchroom of pretty Sue Markham the center. Beginning there,he searched every house in the town for the person of theruffian. Through every nook they passed, and through everycellar, every garret, and every closet, and every shed,barn, and lean-to. But there was not a sign of big BillyAngel. They came back wet with the rain, chilled with wetand wind, utterly downhearted.
"Well," said the sheriff, and he stood steaming in frontof Sue Markham's stove, "he ain't in Derby. That's prettyclear, I guess."
"Have you searched every house?" asked someone.
"Every house in town."
Jack Hopper stood out from a corner, where he had stoodgloomily silent. He raised his head. "Every house exceptthis one," he suggested.
The sheriff merely tilted his head and laughed.
Never in the world was there such music to the ears ofSue as in that laughter.
"If Sue," the sheriff said, "wants to keep a man-killerhid, I guess that we'll let her do it. She'd have betterreasons for it than we'd have for hangin' him."
He grinned at Sue to give a point to his jest. Half anhour later, he and the others were working through thecountry around the town, having ridden off with such aterrible zest and eagerness that she almost feared that onthe broad, wild breast of the mountain they might find theirman—as though he could exist both there and in herroom at the same time.
All the rest of the day they labored. And when theevening came, they were still working in the distance whenSteve Carney himself came into the lunch counter.
"Steve!" she gasped out at him. "They've found BillyAngel, then?"
"Found Angel? Found the devil, and a black, wet one!Nope, they ain't found Billy Angel."
"But why are you back?"
"Something sort of told me that there wasn't any usekeeping it up. A man has to work by hunches half of thetime, you know. That's the way I do, at least. So I turnedaround and came home. No use riding through mud and windwhen they's a fire in town with an empty chair beside it,eh?"
He smiled at her so cheerfully that her heart went out tohim with a rush.
"Oh, Steve," she said to him, "there's not a mite ofmalice in you for all that he's done to you."
He shook his head. "When a gent stands up and fights fairfor a thing, I aim to say that he's won it and deserves tokeep it... unless it can be took away from him by force. Iwouldn't've called in the law to help me, except that Ididn't want to waste a lot more years tearin' around to gettogether another stock of coin. Well," he added, "I don'tknow that the money would make any difference, though, to agirl like you, Sue."
She stamped her foot a little, in the strength of heraffirmation. "Not a mite in the world!"
At this, he shook his head, watching her still in hishalf-smiling, half-derisive manner. "Ah, well, Sue, I'd feela lot more hopeful if you'd only blushed and said nothing.If you come right down to it, I guess there ain't much hopefor me with you, Sue."
"There is!" she said stormily. "I like you more'n I likeanybody, Steve!"
He shook his head again. "That doesn't fool me," he said."It's the sort of thing that doesn't come with waiting. Ifool myself thinking that if I stay around a while, maybeyou'll get to know me well enough to marry me. But doggoneit, Sue, that sort of knowing ain't what counts. The sort ofknowing that makes love is rigged up with lightning. That'sthe way I learned to love you. I seen you a couple of yearsback, polishing up the top of that counter with a rag inyour hand and listening to some lumberman flirting with you,and trying to keep from laughing at him, and only lettingthe smiles get as far as your eyes. Well, it didn't strikeme at the time. But, a year later, when I was off by myself,holding the wheel of a little sloop that was smashingthrough a crazy head sea and near washing me off my feetevery other jump, with a lee shore looking as tall as DerbyMountain and all rigged up with white teeth at its feet, andwith one scared nigger to work the ropes for me... when Iwas out there, watching the clouds sashaying across the faceof the moon, all at once I remembered the picture of howyou'd stood back of the counter, here. And it was lightning,Sue. That let the picture of you into my heart, and it'llnever get out again. If that sort of lightning had everstruck you, you couldn't help but talk right back to me whenI told you that I love you. You wouldn't have to talk,because I'd feel it before you spoke."
She could not speak. He stood up and went to the window.That window was crusted with mist and framed with sheerest,thickest black of the night. He had not gone there to lookout but to cover emotion of which he was ashamed, sheknew.
"However," he said, without turning his head, "I s'posethat I'll stay around for a while, and wait to see what myluck might bring. If I can't get you to marry me out oflove, maybe I'll get you to marry me out of pity, eh?" Helooked at her with a mirthless, twisted smile. Then he wenthastily out into the night.
Although she tried with all of her might, she was notable to say a word to him. It was a wretched evening thatfollowed. When the last of the posse came in, at midnight,she had to rake up enthusiasm and interest and shakings ofthe head over the tales that they had to tell her. They hadnot found Billy Angel. That mysterious fellow seemed to havedisappeared from the face of the earth. She listened with anaching heart. How happy, she told herself, she would be ifshe had never seen that man. And in the first place of all,if she had never seen Billy Angel, she would have promisedto marry Steve Carney. She was sure of it now.
She pondered it at the end of the dreary day's work, whenshe sat in her room with her chin in her hand and her eyessightless with thought. Not that she loved Billy Angel,instead. Indeed, what she felt for him was the strangestmixture of loathing, dread, horror, awe, scorn, and actualsharp-edged hatred. But the very strength of the emotionthat stirred her when she thought of Billy Angel made herunderstand that the thrill that Steve Carney brought intoher life was not real love. It was a pleasant feeling. Itwas compounded of various elements, not the least of whichwas pride that Steve, after all of his travels and hisvoyaging around the world, should have come back to her andoffered her his heart.
But there was something else, something stronger, shetold herself. If she could be so moved with hatred and allthe rest toward Billy Angel, there must be the converse ofthose feelings tied together in one soul-stirringharmony—and that thing could be called love. If therewere a man as pleasantly conversational as Billy Angel wasblunt and terse, if there were a man as open-hearted asBilly Angel was secretive, if there were a man as genial andkind and generous as Billy Angel was cold and self-centered,then, added to these things, if there were a man as trulylion-hearted and indomitable as Billy was, she knew that shewould feel for him a true love that would sweep her off herfeet.
There, after all, she had been able to put her fingerupon the one attractive feature in the character ofAngel—and that was his giant will, his giant couragethat enabled him to go out, sick as he was, and strike downsuch a practiced fighter as Steve Carney. This was all.
But the moment she had come to this decision, she shookher head. There was something else in him—but what itwas she could not tell.
STEVE CARNEY did not wait for his fortuneto be recovered from the hands of the mysterious BillyAngel. Instead, he disappeared from the town of Derby forthirty-six hours and came back again, affluent. Sue Markhamblushed with shame when she heard of his success. Only thecards could explain it. No doubt, the cards had alsoexplained the money that he brought back from overseas, forno matter in what land he worked, his tools were sure to bethe same, always. The gold that he dug was brought to thesurface in the same manner, at some silent table circled bygrim-faced men watching the fall of the cards. But it seemedmore honorable to have brought back his money from strangelands that were filled, perhaps, with strange crimes.
Only the sheriff still retained a hope that Billy Angelwould be caught. He had worked himself to exhaustion andbecome a thin-faced, tight-lipped man. If he met BillyAngel, there would be no attempt to arrest a live man; itwould be a swift and bitter battle to the death, andeveryone knew it.
In the meantime, the girl watched a constant and veryrapid change in Billy Angel. She had not spoken of the timeof departure. Neither had he ever referred to it. But eachof them knew that the mind of the other was full of it. Itseemed as though, by putting forth an extra effort of themind, he was able to control the healing of his body, whichwent on apace. His color changed. His face filled a little.The strain was going from his expression. The wound on hisarm had closed and was healing with amazing rapidity. Alittle longer and he would be himself.
The weather had changed again, for the tenth time in asmany weeks. South winds prevailed. It seemed that the lastwild rainstorm had drained every bit of moisture from theair. Every morning dawned crystal clear with the pale, bluemountain sky arched impalpably above the head of Derby. Thewind was warm and dry, the surface of the ground drained.The riders down the street of Derby raised a little cloud ofdust behind the heels of their horses.
It was on account of this still weather that she knew ofthe next move of Billy Angel. For, in the middle of thenight, wakening suddenly, she was aware that someone wasstirring in the house. Some noise had sounded. Some noisewas sounding now, something felt rather than actually heard.But the faintest of tremors shook this upper floor of thehouse, as the effect of a soft but weighty footfall.
She waited only an instant. Instinct was working fast inher, not reason. She slipped from bed and dressed likelightning—dressed in time to hear the same sound gosteadily down the stairs. Then acreak announced thefootfall passing down the kitchen steps to the outdoors. Shewent to the window and craned her neck out to look down.There, below her, clearly in the starlight, she could seethe broad back and the lofty form of Billy Angel. He wentstraight back to the barn. Then she saw him go into thecorral.
There were two horses there, the one that had belonged toher father and the dainty little mare that Tom Kitchin hadgiven her from his uncle's ranch the year before, a thingall spirit and speed and no strength. If the criminal wanteda horse, there was no choice left to him. The mare would notsustain his bulk. He had to take the big, strong, slowgelding.
She went down the stairs in haste, and yet softly. Fromthe back door she spied on him and saw him catch and saddlethe gelding. No doubt he was merely stealing the horse as asort of grace note after the selfishness and thanklessnessof his treatment of her.
Anger burned with a quiet, deep warmth in her heart.There was no time to call for help. Presently the great bulkof horse and man swept out past the barn and went up thenorthern trail out of Derby.
She did not pause to consider. She ran out blindly,tossed a saddle onto the back of the mare, and instantlypursued him. If he clung to the northern trail, she wouldcatch him, to be sure. For the mare could run all day at therate of two to one, compared with the gelding. But she hadno hope that he would remain on that trail. He was far tooclever for that. Deep in her heart, there was planted aconviction that, no matter how she tried, she could neversucceed in overreaching him in anything on which his heartwas set.
Yet, a scant mile out of the town, with the wind blowinghard into her face with the speed of the mare's galloping,she saw on the rise just before her the great form of BillyAngel on the tall brown gelding. She drew rein with a gaspof astonishment. Now that she had caught up with him, whatwould she do about it? What could she accomplish byaccosting him? He would simply fail to answer, and, if shechose to rail at him, his calm silence would turn her bitingwords like the merest water from a stone.
However, she could at least see in what direction hetraveled. It would be into the higher mountains, of course,there to seek for a secure cover until the hunt for himshould have grown less intense, and she vowed to herselfthat, if she could follow him far enough and securely enoughto make sure he intended to hide, she would ride straightback to Derby and send the sheriff on his trail.
He did not hold on for the upper mountains, however, butturned presently down out of the hills toward the flat ofthe valley, and there he directed his course straight towardthe far-off lights of Three Rivers.
It was wonderful to her; unless, indeed, he possessed inThree Rivers some friend who would give him shelter, just asshe had done before. It was not hard to keep behind him withlittle likelihood of being discovered. The wind blewconstantly and briskly from him to her, and, while it wouldstrongly stifle the sound of the hoofs of her horse, itcarried the sound of the gelding's hoofs clearly back toher.
He did not go straight on to Three Rivers, but turned offtoward a farmhouse on the right of the road. That byroadtwisted through a grove of young poplars, all trembling andsparkling faintly in the starlight, and brought the fugitiveunder the side of a broad, low-built house.
From the edge of the copse, the girl saw him dismount,pick up something, and make a gesture to throw toward one ofthe windows that gaped open above him. There was a moment ofpause. She had been chilled by the ride through the sharpwind, and now, in this sheltered place, her blood began tostir with a grateful activity again. She felt herselfgrowing more and more curious.
Presently a light glimmered through a window above BillyAngel. A head showed for a moment with the light dimlybehind it, so dimly that she could not make out the outline.There was a soft-spoken interchange of words, a gasp fromabove, and the head was withdrawn.
But that gasp had been in the voice of a woman, and theblood of the girl ran cold with disgust and with anger. Itwas from women then that this great, hulking, handsome brutefound shelter wherever he went.
Billy Angel now tied his horse to a young sapling andwent around to the back of the house. At the same timeanother light showed in a lower window. It was enough totell the girl that the woman in the house and the manoutside of it expected to meet one another where that lightwas shining. She dismounted in turn and went close to thewindow, ashamed of the impulse that drove her, but overcomewith an intense curiosity to see the face of the girl towhom Billy Angel had entrusted his safety.
The shade was not drawn. She could look plainly throughthe glass and see everything in the room—a big livingroom, roughly but comfortably furnished, the sort of a roomwhere men would be a good deal more at ease than wouldwomen. There were elk and deer horns mounted along thewalls. There were big, deep-seated chairs. There was ayawning fireplace in which a few embers of the evening'slogs were still smoldering. The man who owned that house andfurnished that room was prosperous, uncultured; so much shecould read with her active eye.
And the girl? She came back into the room at that moment,and behind her was the towering bulk of big Billy Angel. Shelooked a mere child, at first, with low-heeled slippers onher feet, and a rose-colored kimono with long, floweredsleeves, swaying about her as she retreated backward beforeAngel, inviting him in. She closed the door behind him. Sheturned—and Sue Markham sighed. No, this was not agirl. She was among women what Billy Angel was among men. Ashe was handsome in a glorious way that raised him above hisfellows, so she was wonderfully lovely. And, like Billy, shehad black hair, black eyes beneath level, beautifullypenciled brows. She was small, but she was full of dignityas she was full of grace. To be sure, she was young, but atnineteen or twenty she had an air of maturity—she wasold enough to have turned the head of any king in theworld.
The girl, who stood beside the window, made a swiftcomparison between herself and the other woman. She couldnot stand for an instant contrasted with the beauty of thegirl. She had not the grace, she had not the regal,confident manner, she had not that commanding air that goeswith a perfect loveliness. At least, if Billy Angel had beenindifferent to Sue and had treated her as he might havetreated any man, here was a good reason for it. She did notneed an introduction. That delicately lovely face had beenphotographed a thousand times. Her picture was everywhere inthe towns through the valley and through the mountains. Itwas the daughter of the rich rancher; it was ElizabethWainwright herself!
If one is despised, it is a little soothing to have beendespised for the sake of a queen, and a queen was ElizabethWainwright!
But what did the queen do now? She flung her arms abouthis neck; she drew down his head and kissed him! If SueMarkham, red with shame and with scorn of herself for havingremained to be spy—witness of such a scene, turnedaway in haste, she as hastily turned back again.
It's my right! It's my right! she thought savagelyto herself. Why it was her right, she could not for the lifeof her have said. But, in turning back to the window oncemore and pressing closer to it, she felt that she would havegiven ten of the richest years of her life to have heard thewords that passed between these two. But she could not. Thewindow was closed, and the wind kept up a constant sighingthrough the trees. Only occasionally she heard a hint of thehigh, sweet voice of Elizabeth Wainwright, and now and thenshe felt a tremor of the deep, strong bass of BillyAngel.
TEARS clouded her eyes, although why theyshould be there she could not know. Burning tears, thatblinded her, and, when she had wiped them hastily away andlooked again, she saw a thing that stopped her heart withshame and with rage. For big Billy Angel had drawn out awallet, took from it a whole handful of money, and offeredit to Elizabeth Wainwright.
She who stood in the night, watching and wondering, couldnot believe the thing, but there it was before her eyes,most palpably. She saw Elizabeth push back the money andshake her head—saw Billy Angel persist, speakinggravely, almost with a frown—and at last the girl tookthe greenbacks in her hand.
Sue Markham could wait to see no more. She hurried backto her mare and swung into the saddle. She reined back amongthe poplars, wondering what she should do now. There was noquestion about it in her mind. Billy Angel was a villain andmust be destroyed. He had won the heart of this lovely girlby his good looks, and he was bribing her further withmoney. Oh, incredible thing, that the daughter of the richrancher, Wainwright, famous for his prodigality, should havefallen so low that she accepted money at the hand of ashameless fellow.
She had no chance to carry on the burden of her thoughts.There was a guarded sound of a door closing; then BillyAngel came back, striding swiftly, mounted the gelding, androde quickly away. He took the road by which he had come,and the girl only waited to make sure that he was fairlycommitted to it. Then she herself went back by a differentroute.
He was taking the upland course. She herself followed thelonger road over the easier country, knowing that the marewould take three swift strides at full gallop to everylabored stride of the gelding over the rough country.Through the night she flew on the back of the willing horse,and with every stride of the mare she told herself that shewould not weaken in her determination. She would pressstraight on, until she had seen, as a result of her work,Billy Angel locked in strong fetters and in the hands of thelaw.
Very strange, indeed, that she had known him as amurderer, that she had seen him as a thief, but that it wasa tender scene with a girl that convinced her that he wasworthless. She thought of everything but this, however. And,with a swelling heart, she rode on, pressing the marerelentlessly until she reached the last long pitch up thatcarried on to the town of Derby, winding back and forthamong the giant boulders.
She gained the outskirts of the village with the horsestaggering beneath her, and she went straight to the houseof Tom Kitchin. With the handle of her loaded quirt, shebanged against the front door. Instantly there was a stirinside; the door was jerked open, and Tom Kitchin was sayinghastily: "Well, what's up?"
He changed instantly when he made out, in the dimness ofthe starlight, who his visitor was. She broke in sharply:"Tom, get all the men you can... go down the upper valleyroad. Hide there and wait. Billy Angel is coming up thatway! Billy Angel!"
"Sue, how...?"
"Don't ask me how I know... go! Go! Quick, Tom, or he'llget to the mountains... he'll..."
He turned on his heel without a word and sprinted for thepaddock behind his house where he kept four fast, stronghorses. Even these were worn down constantly by hisunusually hard riding.
She did not wait to see him saddled. She felt that, ifshe remained, she would have to speak again and say thingsthat should never have been spoken. So she turned the marehomeward. At the corral, she dragged off the saddle andturned the mare into the little fenced enclosure. That tiredanimal did not even go at once to the watering trough, butstood with her head down, panting hard.
As for Sue, she felt as the horse felt—broken instrength, broken in spirit. She went back to the house. Butthere she stood in the open doorway, waiting with her heartin her mouth. Then she heard the thing for which she hadbeen waiting. Here, there, and again, voices sounded. Shecould distinguish the clear tones of Tom Kitchin as hecalled his chosen men, then a banging of doors. Other voiceswere calling from windows and doors many inquiries, butthose inquiries were not answered. There was only the bustleof saddling and catching horses.
All that while a wild spirit was swelling in her to rushdown to them, to reach the sheriff, to tell him that it wasonly a joke—that Billy Angel was not on thatroad—tell him anything rather than let him go and setthe trap. She saw, as in a painted picture, the bulkyoutlines of Billy Angel against the stars as he rode calmly,confidently up the path, talking to the gelding, orwhistling to the wind. Men started out before him. He drew agun. Harsh challenges rang across the stillness. Guns beganto speak in barking voices. Here, there, and again men fell,and at last the big rider swayed and toppled from hissaddle.
She ran out suddenly into the night, crying at the top ofher power: "Tom! Tom Kitchin!"
For answer, she heard the rapid thundering of hoofs begindown the street and sweep away toward the hills. They weregone! Tom Kitchin and the rest were gone past herrecall.
So she went wearily, slowly back to the lunchroom. Shebuilt the fire in the stove, not because of the chill of thenight, but because she must have something to do to employher hands, if her mind were to be kept from maddening herwith pictures of bloodshed.
The fire burned hot; it cast a widening circle of warmththrough the room, but still she could not be quiet. She wenton with the work of cleaning the place—hating thework, hating the place, but forced to be busy.
It was all in vain, for every instant new pictures dartedinto her brain and made her shrink. She saw Billy Angel oncemore enter her place, lift his hat to her, and pass on. Shesaw him collapse in his chair. She saw the struggle by whichshe had brought him, at last, up the stairs to her room. Shesaw him in the madness of delirium catch at her and hold herwith hands of iron. She saw his gradual progress from day today. She felt again his silence and his steady, brilliantblack eyes fixed upon her.
How slowly, slowly the time went on. Then a new thoughtstruck her. He had broken through the cordon of the men ofthe law. Long before this, if they had succeeded in shootinghim down, they should have returned, bearing his dead bodylashed on the back of a horse. But still there was no signof him. Perhaps he had smashed through them, leaving deadand injured men on either side and had plunged away throughthe night, his pistol flashing back death at the sheriff'sposse.
That thought in her was not a fear—it was a burninghope. She felt that, if she could unsay the words she hadspoken to the sheriff, she would have laid down her life,smiling. Not for the sake of Billy Angel. No, not that, butbecause it was treason, low treachery to spy on a man andbetray him in this fashion.
Then, down the street, she thought she heard voices. Shewent to the door, and leaned there, panting. Yes, they werecoming. She heard them more clearly. They came on slowly.Why at such a snail's pace? Because the dead man was withthem? Because they were bringing back their own wounded anddead? That was it! A hot triumph shot through her. They werebearing away their injured and their dead, and theirslowness was the slowness of defeat, which has a snail'sfoot.
"Hello!" called someone, for in the pale dawn the townwas wakening. "How did it go?"
"We got him! We got Billy Angel!"
She shrank back from the door. She fumbled for a support,and, finding the edge of the counter, she clung to it.Gradually the mist cleared from before her eyes. She wasweak and sick with horror. Billy Angel lay strapped on theback of a horse. His great arms hung feebly down theshoulders of the animal. This was the end and it was she whohad put out that light.
There was a pause. Then men came to the door and passedin. What a cheerful lot they were, and how she hated themfor their joy. Their faces were lighted. They were smilingupon one another. Not one bore the brand of Cain upon hisbrow. Then they were crowding around the counter. Theywanted food. They wanted hot coffee, black, and lots of it.Still they laughed, she thought, like madmen. And still, asthey talked, they smote one another upon the shoulder.
But where were the dead? Surely he had not fallen withoutstriking one blow in self-defense. If he struck, it must befatal. He was not the kind to deal small wounds.
Then two stragglers came in, each fumbling at a bandageon his face. One was plastered across the upper lip. Theother had a great patch over one eye and the other wasdiscolored.
She said finally: "Tell me what happened."
"Tell her, Sam," they said to one of their number. "Youcould talk it up the best."
"Well," he said, "we got him. That's the whole ofit!"
"You got him," she repeated with stiff lips. "Buthow?"
"The sheriff had a tip from somebody. He wouldn't sayfrom who. He got us out on the upper valley road. Then heput up behind the brush. Joe Smythe took all the hosses downthe hill and kept 'em there. We waited twenty minutes, andthen we seen him comin', lookin' twice as big as a man."
"He did that," broke in a second.
"The sheriff, he gave the word, and we busted out atAngel when he was right on top of us. Somebody just showedhimself in front. The rest of us dived at him from behind.It was in the pass, where there wasn't much light, and therewas as much chance of hitting one of our own boys as therewas of hitting Angel. We didn't use guns. We went at himwith our hands."
"He killed... who?" she breathed.
"Killed? What chance did he have for killing? There wassix men at him from behind before he could say JackRobinson. They pulled him off the hoss and got himdown."
"Ah," she cried, "then who...?"
"He was up again in a jiffy. I seen the boys spill awayfrom him like he was a stone, and they was drops of water.Think of that! I reckon there wasn't one of us that wasn'table-bodied as much as most men. But he shook us off like wewas nothin'. In another minute he was jumpin' out of theheap of the men that he'd knocked down. And the sheriff,runnin' in behind with his gun..."
"Ah, heaven forgive Tom Kitchin!" moaned the girl,covering her face with her hands.
"For what? He slammed him along the side of the head withthe gun. He didn't have no chance to get his finger on thetrigger. And down went big Billy Angel. He was clean out,but by the time we reached him, he was half recovered again.He started for his feet. He took a couple of the boys andknocked their heads together. But after that we hit himsolid. Everybody cottoned onto some part of him... a coupleof us on each of his legs, a man or two on each arm, and therest catchin' where they could. Well, not even Billy Angelcould make much headway with a ton of gents hangin' ontohim. Down he went, and in a jiffy we had him tied so's hecouldn't move. We strung him on a hoss and brung himback."
"Alive?" she gasped out.
"Sure. That's the best part of it. But say, Sue, d'youknow what hoss he was ridin'? The skunk had stole your browngeldin' that your father used to ride."
She did not hear. She was merely saying over and overagain in a sort of intoxication of joy: "Thank God! ThankGod!"
ALL of Derby was awake in a moment. Theythronged about Tom Kitchin's house, where the prisoner waskept tied hand and foot, and still under a strong guard. Theoverflow of the crowd washed back into the lunch counter forcoffee and pie to talk over the details as they had heardthem and to quiz the members of the posse.
But the girl left them to help themselves and pay as theypleased. She went to Tom Kitchin, and, when he heard hervoice, he broke through the crowd of congratulatingadmirers. He was a made man, was the sheriff. He had donewell before, but nothing had been a success as great asthis. The county would never have another sheriff so long ashe chose to continue running for office.
"I want to talk to you... alone," she breathed to TomKitchin.
He brushed the others aside and took her into a littlefront room in his house that served him as a sort ofinformal office, with saddles and bridles and guns hangingfrom the walls.
"It's all due to you, Sue," he told her. "If you say thatI can, I'll let the boys know that you get the credit."
"Credit? I don't want it! I don't want it! But... tell mewhat's going to happen to him?"
"To Billy Angel?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Why, there ain't a jury in the mountains that would lethim off with anything less than hangin'. A rope is too goodfor a dog that'd stab another man in the back!"
"You're sure, Tom?"
"Mighty sure of that. A gent that helped to acquit MisterAngel wouldn't lead no happy life around these parts everafterward!"
"Oh, Tom, mightn't a lawyer help him? Lawyers can doqueer things."
At this, he took her strongly by the shoulders and turnedher face suddenly to the light.
"Lemme see," he said, "why you're so all-fired particularabout what a lawyer could do for him. Why, Sue, heaven helpme if it don't look likeyou want to help him."
"I'd never be able to sleep," she whispered to him, "if Iknew that I'd been the means of a man's death."
He tried to smile at her and shake his head, but thesmile died. "Sue," he said sternly, "what d'you know aboutthis Billy Angel? How come you to carewhat happensto him?"
"Don't ask me... but a lawyer..."
"He's broke. He wouldn't have a cent to hire a goodlawyer. There's no chance of that. Some young kid right outof law school with nothin' much on his hands, he'll step outand try to rig up some sort of a defense. That's allthere'll be to it. Just a form, you see, that they'll gothrough. Then they'll hang him."
She cried out, and the sheriff started a little. "Sue,"he said, "by the Lord I figger that there's something elsein your mind."
"I've got to see him," she said. "I've got to see BillyAngel, and see him alone where nobody'll overhear what Ihave to say to him."
The sheriff flushed. "Sue," he said slowly, "I owe him toyou. But I got a queer sort of an idea that if you was tosee him now you might..."
"Might what? What could I do?"
"Touch a knife to the ropes, and the devil would be looseagain!"
"My word of honor."
"Will you shake on that, Sue?"
"There." She gave him her hand and he took it with along, firm pressure, looking hard at her, as though he werestill full of doubts that he was ashamed to put intowords.
"Sue," he said, "will you tell me why you turned him overto me, and now you...?"
"Don't ask me. I'm half mad. I can't talk. But I have tosee him, Tom!"
He drew a long breath, and plainly it was much againsthis will. "Stay here," he said, and left the room.
He came back at the end of a few moments and, opening thedoor, showed Billy Angel in before him. She half expected tosee on the face of the man some sign of the desperateadventure that he had been through that night. But there wasabsolutely no token. There was not a mark on his face. Itseemed that the united force of the posse, although it hadbeen enough to overwhelm him, at last, had not been able toinjure him in the slightest. His hands were tied togetherbefore him. His legs were secured with irons. He could onlymove his feet a few inches at a time.
The sheriff closed the door. "Angel," he said, "MissMarkham has asked me to let you come in here for a littlewhile because she's got something to say to you. It ain'tregular. I hadn't ought to do it, but I'll let you stay, Iguess. She's given me her word that she ain't gonna cutthose ropes. Will you gimmeyour word, Angel, thatyou won't try to escape while you're here?"
Billy Angel smiled. "I'll give you my word aboutnothin'," he said. "I haven't asked to be brought in here.You take all the chances if I'm left. That's all."
At the brutal curtness of this speech, the color of thesheriff became high. He hesitated, wavering in his angryimpulse. But a glance at the girl decided. "I'll trust itall to you, Sue," he said. "I'll stand outside the door...if you want me to keep from hearin' your voices, you'll haveto talk soft. But the first queer noise that I hear, I'll beback through that door with a gun. That's for you, Angel.Lemme tell you that I brought you in alive because it was myduty to try it. But if they's trouble, remember that youmean as much to me dead as you do alive... or a mite more,my friend. Sue, it's up to you." So, curtly, he turned hisback and left them.
The prisoner sat down in a chair and leaned his headagainst the wall. Without embarrassment, he watched the faceof the girl. He seemed more interested in her than he was inhis own fate. Was he, then, merely a brute?
"Billy," she said, trembling as she spoke, "I want toknow what I can do for you?"
"You can make me a cigarette," Billy said calmly.
"I mean..." She broke off. After all, no matter what heraspirations might be now, what was there that she could dofor him more important, truly, than some such small serviceas this? She took the sack from his vest pocket, togetherwith the package of brown papers that accompanied it. Then,with clumsy, inexpert fingers, she slowly fashioned thesmoke and handed it to him.
"A match," said Billy.
She took his box of matches and lighted the cigarette.Drawing a great breath, he closed his eyes, allowed thesmoke to circulate through his lungs, and then blew forth athin blue-brown cloud.
"I've come to ask if I couldn't do something more thanthis for you, Billy."
He nodded. "Sure," he said. "Jail grub ain't the best.You might send in some fruit, and such stuff."
It amazed her. Iron-nerved though she knew that he was,still this exhibition of animal disinterest staggeredher.
"Oh, Billy Angel," she said, "heaven help you!"
"Heaven's not showed much interest so far," returnedBilly. "But there ain't anything else that you can do."
"I can get a lawyer for you."
"Lawyers cost money, Sue."
"I have a little saved up. I could get it from the bankand make a first payment to the lawyer and pay the rest tohim little by little."
He raised his hands in protest.
"Why not? Why not?" cried the girl.
He looked fixedly down to the floor. There was no frownof thought on his brow, but she could tell that he wasintensely fixed upon some problem. At length he looked up toher with a quick, half-sidelong glance.
"I see," he said at length. "It was you."
"I?"
"That told them where to camp for me."
She was struck mute, striving to speak, although she knewthat her white face and her staring eyes convicted her.
He nodded again. "How did you know?" he went on, thinkingaloud, and watching the confirmation of all he said appearin her face. "You saddled the mare and follered me when Ileft. That was it. And you follered me on until I came... bythe heavens, you was outside, lookin' in!"
She shrank from him.
"You saw!" he said huskily.
It would not have been a great deal in any other man.
But when he raised his head and looked at her withglittering eyes and with a set jaw, it seemed to the girlthat a very devil sat before her.
"I...," she began, and there paused, unable to speakagain.
"Then you followed back," he went on, "until you seen metake the upper road, and you cut straight back to town...was that it?" He paused, then said: "It was the hoss! Youwas scared that I'd take the hoss along with me! Why, Sue,if I'd wanted that wooden hoss, I'd never've rode back bythat trail, would I?"
"It wasn't that, Billy... only..."
"Well, there ain't any use talking about it. I ain'tcomplaining. Only, why did you ever put out a hand for me inthe first place? Well, I won't ask you even that. I'mthrough talkin'."
"It came all over me in a sweep, Billy Angel. I had tocome back to the town and tell the sheriff. Ihad totell him."
"For whose sake?"
"For the sake of Elizabeth Wainwright," shewhispered.
At that, she thought that his eyes drew to two points oflight. He stared at her and said not a word.
"Do you understand, Billy Angel?"
He uttered not a syllable in reply; a cold dread enteredher soul.
"Billy, will you speak to me?"
There was not a word.
"Tom!" she cried in a sudden panic.
The sheriff was instantly in the room, a gun in his hand,his faced covered with perspiration—a mute testimonyof the agony of spirit and of suspense through which he hadbeen passing. "What's wrong?" he asked sharply. "What's hebeen doin' to you, Sue?"
"Nothing... only, I want to go and... and... I wasafraid, Tom."
"Angel," said the sheriff bitterly, "hangin' is a sighttoo good for you. Sue, come away with me." He showed herthrough the door, and, as she fled away, she heard his voicecontinuing to his prisoner: "Now, you stand up, youngfeller. Stand up, Angel, and march. Faster! Why God evermade rats like you, I dunno. It sure beats me. It suredoes."
She went on as fast as she could, eager to get where thatvoice would not follow, yet knowing to the day of her deathshe would never stop hearing it.
SOMETIMES conscience has no voice at all.Sometimes it forms itself into a small, dull chant,endlessly repeated. Into such a monotony it framed itself inthe mind of the girl, and she went down the winding streetsaying to herself over and over, endlessly, helplessly,hopelessly: "I have killed a man! I have killed a man!"
She passed the Hinchman place. Oliver Hinchman was in thepasture riding his new cutting horse and trying to work thebig roan stallion out into the paddock. A dangerous task,for the roan was a devil, ready to use teeth, heels, or twofore hoofs like steel stamps. Oliver waved cheerfully toher, and she paused to wave back and to watch him, for insome mysterious manner it eased her mind to watch the skillof his horsemanship and the cunning with which he drove thestallion before him. Most of all, the stallion himself wasbeautiful to see, terrible, useless, but glorious as he was,no man had been able to stay on his back for more than a fewminutes at a time. Eventually he would be destroyed as notworth his keep. But she wondered if merely to live and bebeautiful was not worth something to the world, even thoughthe heart is wicked.
And if that were true of a dumb beast, was it not treblytrue of big Billy Angel? A glorious form among men was his.Herculean strength, lion-like courage was his. And even ifhis soul was one compact of evil, there might well be areason for his existence. But she had chosen to slay him,with her own hand. She could not think of it in any otherway. The hand that fitted the rope around his neck washers.
She went back to her place again. It was like entering adungeon, and like a dungeon it remained all the day. Forbetween her hands and the things she strove to do, shadowsarose and filled her with sadness. Before noon she went toHumphrey Wraxall, the lawyer, and carried with her $115. Sheput it down on his desk.
"Mister Wraxall," she said, "I've got this much to beginpaying you. I could save a lot of money by putting it awayevery week. Instead of putting it away, I'd give it to you.I could give you a share of everything I take in, at the endof every day, if you want it that way and..."
Mr. Wraxall took out his old fountain pen that was to himwhat the marshal's baton is to the general. He began to passit through his pale fingers. "Now, what's the trouble?" hesaid. "What's the money for?"
"Billy Angel...," she began.
"Ah!" said the lawyer. "Ah!"
There was something so full of suggestion in the way heraised his eyebrows and looked at her, there was somethingso sinister, almost, that she quaked and then grew crimson."I'm only interested...," she began.
"In seeing justice done, of course," said the lawyer.
But still his voice was rich with undertones ofsuggestion. She hated him. But he was clever. He had areputation. Such brains as his must be enlisted if BillyAngel were to be saved.
Mr. Wraxall became serious. He tapped the fountain penagainst the desk. "If you employ me," he said, "I must knoweverything." The fox was in his eyes.
"There is nothing to know," she said, "except that I wantto see Billy Angel... free."
"Because he's innocent? Because you are sure he'sinnocent?"
She could not answer. Putting the question, in turn, toherself, what was her pushing reason? What did she think ofBilly Angel? What was he to her?
"Innocent of what?" asked the lawyer's smooth voice. "Ofrobbing Steven Carney? Of stealing your horse? Or...innocent of murder, Miss Markham?"
She was transfixed. She could not answer.
"Ah," said the lawyer. "Then it's not because you feel heis innocent... but because you... admire this man? Becauseyou respect him? Is that it? I must know everything, MissMarkham!"
"I'll come again tomorrow," she murmured, and fled fromthe office with an impression that he was left, smiling andtriumphant, behind her.
But the questions that he had put remained in her mindall the rest of that day and all of the morrow, while sheworked in a dream at the lunch counter, serving men whotalked of one thing only—and that was Billy Angel, hiscareer, and the probable end of it all.
Steve Carney came to her that evening at a moment whenthe room was empty. "Have you had a chance to think thingsover, Sue?" he asked.
She regarded him vaguely. It seemed a thousand years agoand another self that he had asked to marry him. Then sheflushed a little. "I've thought it over, Steve," she saidgently.
"It's no go," he said. "I could see what was coming.Well, that's done for, then. That's done." He took a breath.He made a little gesture in which he seemed to be castingaway one half of his life. "There's no hope of stayingaround, Sue, I suppose?"
"There's no hope, Steve. I'm sorry."
"You're a kind sort of a girl, Sue," he said. "But,that's that." He settled his hat on his head firmly, asthough he were about to walk out into a storm, even thoughthe sun was shining brightly and the air was soft for thatOctober day. Then he left the room, and she knew, as well asthough she had heard him vow it, that the town of Derbywould never see him again.
THERE was no meeting place in Derby exceptfor the lunch counter. And in this time of excitement, therewas a greater call for coffee and for pie than ever beforesince she had opened the place. She was glad of it. Thebaking, the brewing of the coffee, the endless cleaning ofthe cups and plates, the serving, the necessity of makingsome reply to the chatter that went on around her, kept herfrom going distraught with all that was sweeping ceaselesslythrough her mind.
She had only glimpses of the sheriff, now and then. Hewas busy keeping guard over his prisoner, who was about tobe removed to a stronger place of safekeeping. Besides, shefelt that Tom Kitchin had avoided her since the day of herinterview with Billy Angel. Yet Tom was in her place whenthe revelation came.
He had come in to find his deputy, Jerry Saunders, and,while he was there, conversing heatedly with Jerry in acorner of the room that the loungers had generously left tothem, a big man, well advanced in years, but still strong asan oak, came striding into the place.
"I want to see Sheriff Kitchin," he said.
His strong bull's voice brought every eye to him. Theysaw a rough, red face, beetling brows, a wide, thin-lippedmouth. He was clad in a linen duster, and he was stampingthe dust out of the wrinkles of his boots. Plainly he hadtraveled some distance that day.
"I'm the sheriff," said Tom, turning to him.
"I'm Wainwright," said the big, rough man. "I'mWainwright, from down the valley way. Maybe you've heard ofme?"
"I have," said Tom.
"Most folks have up this way," said the cattleman,running his glance swiftly over the faces of the others,like a politician anxious lest he neglect a vote. "Well," hesaid, "I've come to see you about this here BillyAngel."
"Billy Angel?" said the sheriff. "If you have a complaintagainst him... if you've found some sort of a clue... juststep over to my office."
The girl behind the counter listened, unimpressed. Somuch had fallen upon the head of Billy Angel, that shemerely wondered, dimly, why men chose to torment himstill.
"I got nothin' ag'in' him," said the cowman. "I gotsomething for him."
"What?" exclaimed the sheriff.
"That's it. Something for him. I'm gonna set himfree!"
The sheriff started. Then he smiled. He shook his head."That sort of a joke don't get many laughs in Derby, MisterWainwright," he said.
"Laughs ain't what I'm after," said Wainwright. "What Iwant to know is, first, what's ag'in' this here BillyAngel?"
"Stealing horses, robbery, and murder, that's all," saidthe sheriff with a very faint smile.
"What hoss did he steal?" boomed Wainwright. "Damn myheart if a gent like him would be low enough skunk to steala hoss. But I dunno. When his mind is made up, he'd do mostthings, I s'pose, that stood in his way. Whose hoss did hesteal?"
"Hers."
Sue had found her way out from behind the counter, insome way.
Wainwright turned upon her. "He stole your hoss,ma'am?"
"I make no charges against him," poor Sue said.
"Ah! You don't? You ain't steppin' on him now he'sdown?"
Tears of pity—for herself, for BillyAngel—crowded her eyes.
"Well," said the rancher, "you're Sue Markham?"
"Yes."
He nodded. "He told my daughter something about you. Thatcuts down the crimes by one. It's only robbery and murder,now. Who did he rob? A gent named Carney, I think. FindCarney, and I got the money here to pay him and enough moneyto shut his mouth. And that, Sheriff, will leave one chargeleft."
"Only the murder, I suppose," said Tom Kitchin slowly."Are you going to buy him off from that?"
"I am," said Wainwright.
"With what, Mister Wainwright? Money?"
"With the blood of my own son!" exclaimed the big man ina voice of thunder. "For it was him that murdered CharlesOrmond. It'll be known. It's got to be known. I'm here totalk it out where folks can hear me. It was my fool girlBetty that went out to see Charles Ormond... that handsome,useless young rat. It was my boy that went along with her.But she knowed that there might be trouble. She's beenengaged... sort of under her hat... to Charlie. She wantedto break it off. And he was aimin' to be nasty about it. Shetook her brother along. But she took another man, too. Shetook along the strongest fightin' man that she knowed, andthat was Billy Angel, that she asked to trail the rest andbe around handy in case there was bad work on foot. And hedone it. Well, therewas bad work. The end of it wasthat Charlie Ormond and my boy got to passin' language. Andfinally Charlie out with a gun. It misfired. My boy had aknife in his hand. He made a pass at Charlie... Charlieturned around to get away... the knife stabbed him throughthe back to the heart. There stood Betty and her brother ina mess, but here slips in Billy Angel, tells 'em to hop ontheir hosses and ride home... he knows a way out of this.Life is dull for him. He needs excitement.
"They're too rattled to stop and talk about it. They jumpon their hosses and ride for it. When they get home, theyfind out that Billy Angel has been found on the scene of thecrime, ain't stood when he was challenged, and has beenhounded through the mountains by a sheriff's posse." Hepaused, and then he roared: "You blockheads, can't you seethat the girl is nigh dead? Get me water for her,somebody!"
He himself caught Sue and lowered her into a chair. Waterwas brought, but she waved it away. She wanted neither foodnor drink, but only more words from the mouth of this homelyangel and bringer of strange tidings.
"That was all for a while. Then down comes Billy Angel ona night that some of you can remember. He calls for my girland talks to her in the house. He tells her that he knowsthat it's a hard thing to ask, but that, when he took theblame of that killing and got the chase after him, hefiggered that he was foot-free, but, since that time, he'dmet up with a girl in the mountains and fallen in love withher... a girl that had been nursing him and sheltering himsince the first day when he was wounded." He pointed. "SueMarkham, was it you?"
What a shout from the men! In a dizzy whirl she made outthe grim face of Jack Hopper from a corner, the amazedsheriff, and all the rest gaping at her.
"He wanted to be free from his bargain. He knew my boyhad had trouble with his father because he ran through hisallowance too quick. And Billy Angel had brought down coinfor my son to run away on, if he didn't want to stay andface the music. But first he wanted my boy to talk up andtake the blame for the killing of Charlie Ormond. Whateverblame there was... and my lawyer is gonna show that therewas damned little! Well, sir, that's the story. I've told itbrief. But if there was ever a romantic young fool, it'sthis here Billy Angel. I want to see him. You might havethought that he was in love with my daughter? The devil, no!He was in love with trouble, and that was all that there wasto it. A trouble lover! Love of danger for the sake ofdanger. Well, all I can say is that he got it. But my boyain't runnin'. He's standin' his ground. He's told all thestory to me. Now, what I want is Billy Angel out of yourhands, Sheriff!"
IT could not be done at once. But it suddenlyappeared that there were no charges to be pressed againstBilly Angel. The state had nothing to say against him.Indeed, the state was very glad to shut its mouth tight, forBilly Angel had suddenly been borne aloft on an immense waveof notorious popularity.
The wild and improbable tale of what he had done was onthe tongue of every man, a story that men could appreciatebecause of the danger in it, and that women could understandbecause of Sue.
And Sue?
She did not rush to the sheriff's house with all theothers to congratulate Billy Angel on his deliverance. Sheremained behind in the lunch counter, sick-hearted, crushed.It only remained for Billy, as a free man, to come to her,and pour forth his scorn upon her! But now, as she lookedback over all the days he had been in love with her, shecould understand. It had been love. Indeed, that chained histongue and kept him silent. It was more an agony of sorrowthan of rage that had burned in his eyes when he haddiscovered her betrayal. But love, at last, had been killedby her own hand.
There were only two days before the meeting. Two drearyeternities they were to poor Sue Markham.
And then he stood in the doorway, and filled it up fromside to side. There were half a dozen other men in the room.Instantly they picked up their hats. They grinned at oneanother and at Sue. And they walked out.
Oh, fools! Fools! Little they knew the terror and thesorrow with which she looked forward to this meeting withhim! Now he was coming straight toward her. She shrankbehind the counter. He followed her and loomed, enormous,above her. He took one of her hands and held her fast. Sheclosed her eyes and said through her teeth:
"You bought the right to say what you want... you canscorn me and hate me and rage at me, Billy. I got tolisten!"
He said: "What I got to say won't take long. I've come tosay that I love you, Sue. And I've come to say that you loveme, or else you'd never have sent the sheriff for me."
She had no strength to deny it even for a single moment.She let him take both hands and all of her.