CHAPTER 32
The mare herself was in a far from safe condition. And if the marshalhad roused himself from his grief and hurried up the slope on foot hewould have found the fugitive out of the saddle and walking by the sideof the played-out Sally, forcing her with slaps on the hip to keep inmotion. She went on, stumbling, her head down, and the sound of herbreathing was a horrible thing to hear. But she must keep in motion,for, if she stopped in this condition, Sally would never run again.
Andrew forced her relentlessly on. At length her head came up a littleand her breathing was easier and easier. Before dark that night he cameon a deserted shanty, and there he took Sally under the shelter, and,tearing up the floor, he built a fire which dried them both. Thefollowing day he walked again, with Sally following like a dog at hisheels. One day later he was in the saddle again, and Sally was herselfonce more. Give her one feed of grain, and she would have run again thatfamous race from beginning to end. But Andrew, stealing out of theRoydon mountains into the lower ground, had no thought of another race.He was among a district of many houses, many men, and, for the finalstage of his journey, he waited until after dusk had come and thensaddled Sally and cantered into the valley.
It was late on the fourth night after he left Los Toros that Andrew cameagain to the house of John Merchant and left Sally in the very placeamong the trees where the pinto had stood before. There was no danger ofdiscovery on his approach, for it was a wild night of wind and rain. Thedrizzling mists of the last three days had turned into a steadydownpour, and rivers of water had been running from his slicker on theway to the ranch house. Now he put the slicker behind the saddle, andfrom the shelter of the trees surveyed the house.
It was bursting with music and light; sometimes the front door wasopened and voices stole out to him; sometimes even through the closeddoor he heard the ghostly tinkling of some girl's laughter.
And that was to Andrew the most melancholy sound in the world.
The rain, trickling even through the foliage of the evergreen, decidedhim to act at once. It might be that all the noise and light were, afterall, an advantage to him, and, running close to the ground, he skulkedacross the dangerous open stretch and came into the safe shadow of thewall of the house.
Once there, it was easy to go up to the roof by one of the rain pipes,the same low roof from which he had escaped on the time of his lastvisit. On the roof the rush and drumming of the rain quite covered anysound he made, but he was drenched before he reached the window ofAnne's room. Could he be sure that on her second visit she would havethe same room? He settled that by a single glance. The curtain was notdrawn, and a lamp, turned low, burned on the table beside the bed. Theroom was quite empty.
The window was fastened, but he worked back the fastening iron with theblade of his knife and raised himself into the room. He closed thewindow behind him. At once the noise of rain and the shouting of thewind faded off into a distance, and the voices of the house came moreclearly to him. But he dared not stay to listen, for the water wasdripping around him; he must move before a large dark spot showed on thecarpet, and he saw, moreover, exactly where he could best hide. Therewas a heavily curtained alcove at one end of the room, and behind thisshelter he hid himself.
And here he waited. How would she come? Would there be someone with her?Would she come laughing, with all the triumph of the dance bright inher face?
Vaguely he heard the shrill droning of the violins die away beneath him,and the slipping of many dancing feet on a smooth floor fell to awhisper and then ceased. Voices sounded in the hall, but he gave no heedto the meaning of all this. Not even the squawking of horns, asautomobiles drove away, conveyed any thought to him; he wished that thismoment could be suspended to an eternity.
Parties of people were going down the hall; he heard soft flights oflaughter and many young voices. People were calling gaily to one anotherand then by an inner sense rather than by a sound he knew that the doorwas opened into the room. He leaned and looked, and he saw Anne Witheroclose the door behind her and lean against it. In the joy of her triumphthat evening?
No, her head was fallen, and he saw the gleam of her hand at her breast.He could not see her face clearly, but the bent head spoke eloquently ofdefeat. She came forward at length. Thinking of her as the reigningpower in that dance and all the merriment below him, Andrew had beenimagining her tall, strong, with compelling eyes commanding admiration.He found all at once that she was small, very small; and her hair wasnot that keen fire which he had pictured. It was simply a coppery glow,marvelously delicate, molding her face. She went to a great full-lengthmirror. She raised her head for one instant to look at her image, andthen she bowed her head again and placed her hand against the edge ofthe mirror for support. Little by little, through the half light, he wasmaking her out and now the curve of this arm, from wrist to shoulder,went through Andrew like a phrase of music. He stepped out from behindthe curtain, and, at the sound of the cloth swishing back into place,she whirled on him.
She was speechless; her raised hand did not fall; it was as if she werefrozen where she stood.
"I shall leave you at once," said Andrew quietly, "if you arefrightened. You have only to tell me."
He had come closer. Now he was astonished to see her turn swiftly towardthe door and touch his arm with her hand. "Hush!" she said. "Hush! Theymay hear you!"
She glided to the door into the hall and turned the lock softly and cameto him again.
It made Andrew weak to see her so close, and he searched her face with ahungry and jealous fear, lest she should be different from his dream ofher. "You are the same," he said with a sigh of relief. "And you are notafraid of me?"
"Hush! Hush!" she repeated. "Afraid of you? Don't you see that I'mhappy, happy, happy to see you again?"
She drew him forward a little, and her hand touched his as she did so.She turned up the lamp, and a flood of strong yellow light went over theroom. "But you have changed," said Anne Withero with a little cry. "Oh,you have changed! They've been hounding you--the cowards!"
"Does it make no difference to you--that I have killed a man."
"Ah, it was that brother to the Dozier man. But I've learned about him.He was a bloodhound like his brother, but treacherous. Besides, it wasin fair fight. Fair fight? It was one against six!"
"Don't," said Andrew, breathing hard, "don't say that! You make me feelthat it's almost right to have done what I've done. But besides him--allthe rest--do they make no difference?"
"All of what?"
"People say things about me. They even print them." He winced as hespoke.
But she was fierce again; her passion made her tremble.
"When I think of it!" she murmured. "When I think of it, the rotteninjustice makes me want to choke 'em all! Why, today I heard--I can'trepeat it. It makes me sick--sick! Why, they've hounded you and bulliedyou until they've made you think you are bad, Andrew. They've even madeyou a little bit proud of the hard things people say about you. Isn'tthat true?"
Was it any wonder that Andrew could not answer? He felt all at once sosupple that he was hot tallow which those small fingers would mold andbend to suit themselves.
"Sit down here!" she commanded.
Meekly he obeyed. He sat on the edge of his chair, with his hat heldwith both hands, and his eyes widened as he stared at her--like a personcoming out of a great darkness into a great light.
And tears came into the eyes of the girl.
"You're as thin as a starved--wolf," she said, and closed her eyes andshuddered. "And all the time I've been thinking of you as you were whenI saw you here before--the same clear, steady eyes and the same directsmile. But they've made you older--they've burned the boy out of youwith pain! And I've been thinking about you just cantering through wild,gay adventures. Are you ill now?"
He had leaned back in the chair and gathered his hat close to hisbreast, crushing it.
"I'm not ill," said Andrew. His voice was hoarse and thick. "I'm justlistening to you. Go on an
d talk."
"About you?" asked the girl.
"I don't hear your words--hardly; I just hear the sound you make." Heleaned forward again and cast out his arm so that the palm of his handwas turned up beneath her eyes. She could see the long, lean fingers. Itsuddenly came home to her that every strong man in the mountain desertwas in deadly terror of that hand. Anne Withero was shaken for thefirst time.
"Listen to me," he was saying in that tense whisper which was oddly likethe tremor of his hand, "I've been hungry for that voice all theseweeks--and months."
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do," said the girl, very grave. "I'mgoing to break up this cowardly conspiracy against you. I've written tomy father to get the finest lawyer in the land and send him out here tomake you--legal--again."
He began to smile, and shook his head.
"It's no use," he said. "Perhaps your lawyer could help me on account ofBill's death, but he couldn't help me from Hal."
"Are you--do you mean you're going to fight the other man, too?"
"He killed his horse chasing me," said Andrew. "I couldn't stop to fighthim because I was comin' down here to see you. But when I go away I'vegot to find him and give him a chance back at me. It's only fair."
"Because he killed a horse trying to get you, you're going to give him achance to shoot you?"
Her voice had become shrill. She lowered it instinctively toward the endand cast a glance of apprehension toward the door.
"You are quite mad," said the girl.
"You don't understand," said Andrew. "His horse was Gray Peter--thestallion. And I would rather have killed a man than have seen Gray Peterdie. Hal had Peter's head in his arms," he added softly. "And he'llnever give up the trail until he's had it out with me. He wouldn't behalf a man if he let things drop now."
"So you have to fight Hal Dozier?"
"Yes."
"But when that's done--"
"When that's done one of us will be dead. If it's me, of course, there'sno use worryin'; if it's Hal, of course, I'm done in the eyes of thelaw. Two--murders!"
His eyes glinted and his fingers quivered. It sent a cold thrill throughthe girl.
"But they say he's a terrible man, Andrew. You wouldn't let him catchyou?"
"I won't stand and wait for him," said Andrew gravely. "But if we fightI think I'll kill him."
"What makes you think that?" She was more curious than shocked.
"It's just a sort of feeling that you get when you look at a man; eitheryou're his master or you aren't. You see it in a flash."
"Have you ever seen your master?" asked the girl slowly.
"I'll want to die when I see that," he said simply.
Suddenly she clenched her hands and sat straight up.
"It's got to be stopped," she said hotly. "It's all nonsense, and I'mgoing to see that you're both stopped." "Four days ago," he said, "youcould have taken me in the hollow of your hand. I would have come to youand gone from you at a nod. That time is about to end."
He paused a little, and looked at her in such a manner that she wasfrightened, but it was a pleasant fear. It made her interlace herfingers with nervous anxiety, but it set a fire in her eyes.
"That time is ending," said Andrew. "You are about to be married."
"And after that you will never look at me again, never think of meagain?"
"I hope not," he answered. "I strongly hope not."
"But why? Is a marriage a blot or a stain?"
"It is a barrier," he answered.
"Even to thoughts? Even to friendship?"
"Yes."
A very strange thing happened in the excited mind of Anne Withero. Itseemed to her that Charles Merchant sat, a filmy ghost, beside thistattered fugitive. He was speaking the same words that Andrew spoke, buthis voice and his manner were to Andrew Lanning what moonshine is tosunlight. She had been thinking of Charles Merchant as a social asset;she began to think of him now as a possessing force. Anne Witheropossessed by Charlie Merchant!
"What you have told me," she said, "means more than you may think to me.Have you come all this distance to tell me?"
"All this distance to talk?" he said. He seemed to sit back and wonder."Have I traveled four days?" he went on. "Has Gray Peter died, and haveI been under Hal Dozier's rifle only to speak to you?" He suddenlyrecalled himself.
"No, no! I have come to give you a wedding present."
He watched her color change.
"Are you angry? Is it wrong to give you a present?"
"No," she answered in a singular, stifled voice. "It is this watch." Itwas a large gold watch and a chain of very old make that he put into herhand. "It is for your son," said Andrew.
She stood up; he rose instinctively.
"When I look at it I'm to remember that you are forgetting me?"
A little hush fell upon them.
"Are you laughing at me, Anne?"
He had never called her by her name before, and yet it came naturallyupon his lips.
She stood, indeed, with the same smile upon her lips, but her eyes werefixed and looked straight past him. And presently he saw a tear passslowly down her face. Her hand remained without moving, with the watchin it exactly as he had placed it there.
She had not stirred when he slipped without a noise through the windowand was instantly swallowed in the rushing of the wind and rain.