CHAPTER IV
A REVELATION
When Bayard returned to the Manzanita House, he ran up the stairs withan eagerness that was not in the least inspired by a desire to return tohis watching over the man he had chosen to succor. He strode down thehallway and into the room with his keen anticipation thinly disguised bya sham concern. And within the doorway he halted abruptly, for the womanwho had helped him, whose presence there had brought him back from hishorse on a run, sat at the bedside with her hands limp in her lap andabout her bearing an air that quite staggered him. Her face was asnearly expressionless as a human countenance can become. It was as ifsomething had occurred which had taken from her all emotion, all abilityto respond to any mental or sensory influence. For the moment, she wascrushed, and so completely that even her reflexes did not react to thehorror of the revelation. She did not look at Bayard, did not move; shemight have been without the sense of sight or hearing; she did not evenbreathe perceptibly; just sat there with a fixity that frightened him.
"Why, Miss!" he cried in confused alarm. "I ... I wouldn't left you--"
She roused on his cry and shook her head, and he thought she wanted himto stop, so he stood there through an awkward moment, waiting for her tosay more.
"Course, it was too much for you!" he concluded aloud,self-reproachfully, when she did not speak. "You're tired; this ... thistakin' care of this booze-soaked carcass was too much to ask of you.I--"
"Don't," she said, in a dry, flat voice, looking up at him appealingly,mastering her voice with a heroic effort. "Don't, please! This.... Thisbooze-soaked ... carcass ...
"He is my husband."
The words with which she ended came in a listless whisper; she made nofurther sound, and the hissing of Bayard's breath, as it slipped outbetween his teeth, was audible.
All that he had said against that other man came back to him, all theepithets he had used, all the pains he had taken to impress on thiswoman, his wife, a sense of the utter degradation, the vileness, of NedLytton. For the instant, he was filled with regret because of his rashspeech; the next, he was overwhelmed by realizing that all he had saidwas true and that he had been justified in saying those things of thiswoman's husband. The thought unpoised him.
"I didn't think you was married," he said, slowly, distinctly, hisvoice unsteady, scarcely conscious of the fact that he was putting whattranspired in his mind into words. "Especially ... to a thing likethat!"
The gesture of his one arm which indicated the prostrate figure waseloquent of the contempt he felt and the posture of his body, bentforward from his hips, was indication of his sincerity. He was sointense emotionally that he could not realize that his last words mightlash the suffering woman cruelly. The thought was in him, so strong, sorevolting, that it had to come out. He could not have restrained it hadhe consciously appreciated the hurt that its expression would give thewoman.
She stared up at him, her numb brain wondering clumsily at the stormindicated in his eyes, about his mouth, and they held so a moment beforeshe sat back in her chair, weakly, one wrist against her forehead.
"Here, come over by the window ... never mind him," he said, almostroughly, stepping to her side, grasping her arm and shaking it.
Ten minutes before the careful watching of that unconscious man had beenthe one important thing of the night, but now it was an inconsequentialaffair, a bother. Ten minutes before his interest in the woman had beena light, transient fancy; now he was more deeply concerned with hertrouble than he ever had been with an affair of his own. He lifted thebandaged arm and placed a pillow beneath it, almost carelessly; thenclosed the door. He turned about and looked at Ann Lytton, who had goneto stand by the window, her back to him, face in her hands.
He walked across and halted, towering over her, looking helplessly downat the back of her bowed head. His arms were limp at his sides, untilshe swayed as though she would fall, and, then, he reached out tosupport her, grasping her shoulders gently with his big palms; when shesteadied, he left his hands so, lifting the right one awkwardly tostroke her shivering shoulder. They stood silent many minutes, the mansuffering with the woman, suffering largely because of his inability tobear a portion of her grief. After a time, he forced her about with hishands and, when she had turned halfway around, she lifted her face tolook into his. She blinked and strained her eyes open and laughedmirthlessly, then was silent, with the knuckles of her fist pressedtightly against her mouth.
"I am so glad ... so glad that it was you ..." she said, huskily, aftera wait in which she mastered herself, the thought that was uppermost inher mind finding the first expression. "I heard you say, down there,that he was a cripple and that ... that's what he is ... what I thought.You ... you understand, don't you? A woman in my place _has_ to thinksomething like that!"--in unconscious confession to a weakness. "I heardyou say he was a cripple ... the man you were carrying ... and I thoughtit must be Ned, because I've had to think that, too. You understand?Don't you?"
She looked into his eyes with the directness of a pleading child and,gripping her shoulders, he nodded.
"I think I understand, ma'am. I ... and I hope you can forget all th'mean things I've said about him to-night. I--"
"And when you called me in here," she interrupted, heedless of hisattempt at apology, "I was afraid at first, because something told me itwas he. I had come all the way from Maine to see him; to find out abouthim, and I didn't want to blind myself after that. I wanted to know ...the worst."
"You have, ma'am," he said, grimly, and took his hands from hershoulders and turned away.
"I was afraid it was Ned from the very first, but out there, with thoseother men around, I ... couldn't make myself look at him. And after thatthe suspense was horrible. I was glad when you called me to help youbecause that made me face it ... and even knowing what I know now isbetter in some ways than uncertainty. I ... I might have dodged, anyhow,if you hadn't made me feel you were trying to find out how far I wouldgo ... what I would do. Your doubting me made me doubt myself andthat ... that drove me on.
"It took a lot of courage to look at his ... face. But I had to know. Ihad to; I'd come all this way to know."
She hesitated, staring absently, and Bayard waited in silence for her togo on.
"It seemed quite natural to hear those men talking about him the waythey did, swearing at him and laughing.... And then to hear someoneprotecting him because he is weak,"--with a brave effort at a smile."That's what people in the East, his own people, even, have done; andI ... I had to stand up for him when everything, even he, was againstme....
"I'd hoped that out here, at the mine, he'd be different, that he'dbehave, that people would come to respect and like him. I'd hoped forthat right up to the time I saw you coming across the street with him. Ifelt it must be he. I hadn't heard from him in months, not a line.That's why I came out here. And I guess that in my heart I'd expected tofind him like that. The uncertainty, that was the worst....
"Peculiar, isn't it, why I should have been uncertain? I should haveadmitted what I felt intuitively, but I always have hoped, I always willhope that he'll come through it sometime. That hope has kept me fromtelling myself that it must be the same with him out here as it was backthere; that's why I fooled myself until I saw you ... with him.
"And I'm so glad it happened to be you who picked him up. Youunderstand, you--"
Emotion choked off her words.
Bayard walked from her, returned to the bedside and stared down at theinert figure there. He was in a tumult. The contrast between this manand wife was too dreadful to be comprehended in calm. Lytton was thelowest human being he had ever known, degenerated to an organism thatlived solely to satiate its most unworthy appetites. Ann, the womancrying yonder, was quite the most beautiful creature on whom he had everlooked and, though he had seen her for the first time no more than anhour before, her charm had touched every masculine instinct, had grippedhim with that urge which draws the sexes one to another ... yet, he wasnot conscious of it. She
was, in his eyes, so wonderful, so removed fromhis world, that he could not presume to recognize her attraction as forhimself. She was a distant, unattainable creature, one to serve, toadmire; perhaps, sometime, to worship reverently and that was the factwhich set the blood congesting in his head when he looked down at thewaster for whom she had traveled across a continent that she mightsuffer like this. Lytton was attainable, was comprehensible, and Bayardwas urged to make him suffer in atonement for the wretchedness he hadbrought to this woman who loved him.... Who.... _loved_ him?
The man turned to look at Ann again, his lower lip caught speculativelybetween his thumb and forefinger.
"Now, I suppose the thing to do is to plan, to make some sort ofarrangements ... now that I have found him," she said in a strainedvoice, bracing her shoulders, lifting a hand to brush a lock of hairback from her white, blue-veined temple.
She smiled courageously at the cowboy who approached her diffidently.
"I came out here to find out what was going on, to help him if he weresucceeding, to ... help him if ... as I have found him."
Her directness had returned and, as she spoke, she looked Bayard in theeye, steadily.
"Well, whatever I can do, ma'am, I'm anxious to do," he said, repressinghimself that he might not give ground to the suspicion that he wasforcing himself on her, though his first impulse was to take her affairsin hand and shield her from the trying circumstances which were bound tofollow. "I can't do much to help you, but all I can do--"
"I don't think I could do anything without you," she said, simply,letting her gaze travel over his big frame. "It's so far away, out here,from anyone I know or the things I am accustomed to. It's ... it's toowonderful, finding someone out here who understands Ned, when even hisown people back home didn't. I wonder ... is it asking too much to askyou to help me plan? You know people and conditions. I don't."
She made the request almost timidly, but he leaped at the opportunityand cried:
"If I can help you, if I could be of use to you, I'd think it was th'finest thing that ever happened to me, ma'am. I've never been of muchuse to anybody but myself. I ... I'd like to help you!" His manner wasso wholly boyish that she impulsively put out her hand to him.
"You're kind to me, so...."
She lost the rest of the sentence because of the fierceness with whichhe grasped her proffered hand and for a moment his gray eyes burned intohers with confusing intensity. Then he straightened and looked away withan inarticulate word.
"Well, what do you want to do?" he asked, stepping to one side to bringa chair for her.
"I don't know; he's in a frightful ... I've never seen him as bad asthis,"--her voice threatening to break.
"An' he'll be that way so long as he's near that!"
He held his hand up in a gesture that impelled her to listen as thenotes from the saloon piano drifted into the little room.
"He's pretty far gone, ma'am, your husband. He ain't got a whole lot ofstrength, an' it takes strength to show will power. We might keep himaway from drinkin' by watching him all the time, but that wouldn't domuch good; that wouldn't be a cure; it would only be delay, and wastingour time and foolin' ourselves. He'd ought to be took away from it, along ways away from it."
"That's what I've thought. Couldn't I take him out to the mine--"
"His mine is most forty miles from here, ma'am."
"So much the better, isn't it? We'd be away from all this. I could keephim there, I know."
Bayard regarded her critically until her eyes fell before his.
"You might keep him there, and you might not. I judge you didn't havemuch control over him in th' East. You didn't seem to have a great dealof influence with him by letter,"--gently, very kindly, yetimpressively. "If you got out in camp all alone with him, livin' a lifethat's new to you, you might not make good there. See what I mean? You'dbe all alone, cause the mine's abandoned." She started at that. "There'dbe nobody to help you if he got crazy wild like he'll sure get before hecomes through. You--"
"You don't think I'm up to it? Is that it?" she interrupted.
He looked closely at her before he answered.
"Ma'am, if a woman like you can't keep a man straight by just lovin'him,"--with a curious flatness in his voice--"you can't do it no way,can you?"
She sat silent, and he continued to question her with his gaze.
"I judge you've tried that way, from what you've told me. You've beenpretty faithful on the job. You ... you _do_ love him yet, don't you?"he asked, and she looked up with a catch of her breath.
"I do,"--dropping her eyes quickly.
The man paced the length of the room and back again as though thisconfession had altered the case and presented another factor for hisconsideration. But, when he stopped before her, he only said:
"You can't leave him in town; you can't take him to his mine. Thereain't any place away from town I know of where they'd want to bebothered with a sick man," he explained, gravely, evading an expressionof the community's attitude toward Lytton. "I might take him to myplace. I'm only eight miles out west. I could look after him there,cause there ain't much press of work right now an'--"
"But I would go with him, too, of course," she said. "It's awfully kindof you to offer...."
In a flash the picture of this woman and that ruin of manhood togetherin his house came before Bayard and, again, he realized the tragedy intheir contrast. He saw himself watching them, hearing their talk, seeingthe woman make love to her debauched husband, perhaps, in an effort tostrengthen him; he felt his wrath warm at thought of that girl'sdevotion and loyalty wasting itself so, and a sudden, alarming distrustof his own patience, his ability to remain a disinterested neutral,arose.
"Do you think he better know you're here?" he asked, inspired, andturned on her quickly.
"Why, why not?"--in surprise.
"It would sure stir him up, ma'am. He ain't even wrote to you, you say,so it would be a surprise for him to see you here. He's goin' to needall the nerve he's got left, ma'am, 'specially right at first,"--hismind working swiftly to invent an excuse--"Your husband's goin' to havethe hardest fight he's ever had to make when he comes out of this. He'son the ragged edge of goin' _loco_ from booze now; if he had somethin'more to worry him, he might....
"Besides, my outfit ain't a place for a woman. He can get along becausehe's lived like we do, but you couldn't. All I got is oneroom,"--hesitating as if he were embarrassed--"and no comforts for ... alady like you, ma'am."
"But my place is with him! That's why I've come here."
"Would your bein' with him help? Could you do anything but stir him up?"
"Why of--"
"Have you ever been able to, ma'am?"
She stopped, unable to get beyond that fact.
"If you ain't, just remember that he's a hundred times worse than he waswhen you had your last try at him."
She squeezed the fingers of one hand with the other. Her chin trembledsharply but she mastered the threatened breakdown.
"What would you have me do?" she asked, weakly, and at that Bayard swunghis arms slightly and smiled at her in relief.
"Can't you stay right here in Yavapai and wait until the worst is over?It won't be so very long."
"I might. I'll try. If you think best ... I will, of course."
"I'll come in town every time I get a chance and tell you about him," hepromised, eagerly. "I'll ... I'll be glad to," he hastened to add, witha drop in his voice that made her look at him. "Then, when he's better,when he's able to make it around the place on foot, when you think youcan manage him, I s'pose you can go off to his mine, then."
He ceased to smile and smote one hip in a manner that told of his suddenfeeling of hopelessness. He walked toward the bed again and Ann watchedhim. As he passed the lamp on the chair, she saw the fine ripple of histhigh muscles under the close-fitting overalls, saw with eyes that didnot comprehend at first but which focused suddenly and then scrutinizedthe detail of his big frame with an odd uneasiness.
/> He turned on her and said irrelevantly, as if they had discussed theidea at length,
"I'm glad to do it for you, ma'am."
He stared at her steadily, seeming absorbed by the thought of service toher, and the woman, after a moment, removed her gaze from his.
"It's so good of you!" she said, and became silent when he gave her noheed.
So it was arranged that Bayard should take Ned Lytton to his home tonurse and bring him back to bodily health and moral strength, if suchaccomplishments were possible. The hours passed until night had ceasedto age and day was young before the cowman deemed it wise to move thestill sleeping Easterner. He chose to make the drive to his ranch indarkness, rather than wait for daylight when his going would attractattention and set minds speculating and tongues wagging.
Until his departure, the three remained in the room where they had met,Ann much of the time sitting beside her husband, staring before her,Bayard moving restlessly about in the shadows, watching her face and hermovements, questioning her occasionally, growing more absorbed instudying the woman, until, during their last hour together, he was in afever to be away from her where he could think straight of all that hadhappened since night came to Yavapai.
Before he left he said:
"Probably nobody will ask you questions, but if they do just say thatyour husband went away before daylight an' that I left after I washedhis arm out. That'll be the truth an' what folks don't know won't hurt'em ... nor make you uncomfortable by havin' 'em watch you an' do a lotof unnecessary talkin'."
From her window Ann watched Bayard emerge from the doorway below andplace the limp figure of his burden on the seat of the buckboard he hadsecured for the trip home. In the starlight she saw him knot the bridlereins of his sorrel over the saddle horn, heard him say, "Go home, Abe,"and saw the splendid beast stride swiftly off into the night alone.Then, the creak of springs as he, too, mounted the wagon, his word tothe horses, the sounds of wheels, and she thought she saw him turn hisface toward her window as he rounded the corner of the hotel.
The woman stood a moment in the cold draught of the wind that heraldeddawn. It was as though something horrible had gone out of her life and,at the same time, as if something wonderful had come in; only, while theone left the heaviness, the other brought with it a sweet sorrow. Halfaloud she told herself that; then cried:
"No, it can't be! Nothing has gone; nothing has come. Things are as theywere ... or worse...."
Then, she turned to her hard, lumpy bed.