Trail's End
CHAPTER XX
UNCLEAN
Earl Gray came down the street hatless, the big news on his tongue.Rhetta Thayer, in the door of the _Headlight_ office, where she hadstood in the pain of one crucified while the shots sounded in Peden'shall, stopped him with a gasped appeal.
Dead. Peden and the gun-slingers he had brought there to kill Morgan;any number of others who had mixed in the fight; Morgan himself--alldead, the floor covered with the dead. That was the terrible word thatrolled from Gray's excited tongue. And when she heard it, Rhetta put outher hands as one blind, held to the door frame a moment while the bloodseemed to drain out of her heart, staring with horrified eyes into theface of the inconsequential man who had come in such avid eagerness totell this awful tale.
People were hastening by in the direction of Peden's, scattered atfirst, like the beginning of a retreat, coming then by twos and threes,presently overflowing the sidewalk, running in the street. Rhetta stoodstaring, half insensible, on this outpouring. Riley Caldwell, the youngprinter, rushed past her out of the shop, his roached hair like anAlgonquin's standing high above his narrow forehead, his face white asif washed by death.
Impelled by a desire that was commanding as it was terrifying, moved bya hope that was only a shred of a raveled dream, Rhetta joined themoving tide that set toward Peden's door. Dead--Morgan was dead! Becauseshe had asked him, he had set his hand to this bloody task. She had senthim to his death in her selfish desire for security, in her shrinkingcowardice, in her fear of riot and blood. And he was dead, the light wasgone out of his eyes, his youth and hope were sacrificed in a cause thatwould bring neither glory nor gratitude to illuminate his memory.
She began to run, out in the dusty street where he had marched hispatrol that first night of his bringing peace to Ascalon; to run, herfeet numb, her body numb, only her heart sentient, it seemed, and thatyearning out to him in a great pain of pity and stifling labor ofremorse. It was only a little way, but it seemed heavy and long, impededby feet that could not keep pace with her anguish, swift-running towhisper a tender word.
The lights were bright in Peden's hall, a great crowd leaned andstrained and pushed around its door. There were some who asked herkindly to go away, others who appealed earnestly against her lookinginto the place, as Rhetta pushed her way, panting like an exhaustedswimmer, through the crowd.
Nothing would turn her; appeals were dim as cries in drowning ears.Gaining the door, she paused a moment, hands pressed to her cheeks, hairfallen in disorder. Her eyes were big with the horror of her thoughts;she was breathless as one cast by breakers upon the sand. She looked inthrough the open door.
Morgan was standing like a soldier a little way inside the door, hisrifle carried at port arms, denying by the very sternness of his posethe passage of any foot across that threshold of tragedy. There wasnothing in his bearing of a wounded man. Beyond him a few feet lay thebodies of the two infamous guards who had been posted at the door totake his life; along the glistening bar, near its farther end, Pedenstretched with face to the floor, his appealing hands outreaching.
A gambling table had been upset, chairs strewn in disorder about thefloor, when the rabble was cleared out of the place. Only Morganremained there with the dead men, like a lone tragedian whose part wasnot yet done.
Rhetta looked for one terrifying moment on that scene, its tragic detailimpressed on her senses as a revelation of lightning leaps out of theblackest night to be remembered for its surrounding terror. And in thatmoment Morgan saw her face; the horror, the revulsion, the sickness ofher shocked soul. A moment, a glance, and she was gone. He was aloneamidst the blood that the curse of Ascalon had led his hand to pour outin such prodigality in that profaned place.
Long after the fearful waste of battle had been cleared from Peden'sfloor, and the lights of that hall were put out; long after the mostwakeful householder of Ascalon had sought his bed, and the last horsemanhad gone from its hushed streets, Morgan walked in the moonlight,keeping vigil with his soul. The curse of blood had descended upon him,and she whose name he could speak only in his heart, had come to lookupon his infamy and flee from before his face.
Time had saved him for this excruciating hour; all his poor adventures,slow striving, progression upward, had been designed to culminate in themockery of this night. Fate had shaped him to his bitter ending, drawinghim on with lure as bright as sunrise. And now, as he walked slowly inthe moonlight, feet encumbered by this tragedy, he felt that the essencehad been wrung out of life. His golden building was come to confusion,his silver hope would ring its sweet chime in his heart no more. Fromthat hour she would abhor him, and shrink from his polluted hand.
He resented the subtle indrawing of circumstance that had thrust him inthe way of this revolting thing, that had thrust upon him this infamousoffice that carried with it the inexorable curse of blood. Softly,against the counsel of his own reason, he had been drawn. She who hadstared in horror on the wreckage of that night had inveigled him withgentle word, with appeal of pleading eye.
This resentment was sharpened by the full understanding of hisjustification, both in law and in morals, for the slaying of thesedesperate men. Duty that none but a coward and traitor to his oath wouldhave shunned, had impelled him to that deed. Defense of his life was ajustification that none could deny him. But she had denied him that. Shehad fled from the lifting of his face as from a thing unspeakablyunclean.
He could not chide her for it, nor arraign her with one bitter thought.She had hoped it would be otherwise; her last word had been on her besthope for him in a place where such hope could have no fruition--that hewould pass untainted by the bloody curse that fell on men in this place.It could not be.
Because he had taken Seth Craddock's pistol away from him on that firstday, she had believed him capable of the superhuman task of enforcingorder in Ascalon without bloodshed. Sincere as she had been in herdesire to have him assume the duties of peace officer, she had actedunconsciously as a lure to entangle him to his undoing.
Very well; he would clean up the town for her as she had looked to himto do, sweep it clear of the last iniquitous gun-slinger, the lastslinking gambler, the last drab. He would turn it over to her clean,safe for her day or night, no element in it to disturb her repose. Atwhat further cost of life he must do this, he could not then foresee,but he resolved that it should be done. Then he would go his way,leaving his new hopes behind him with his old.
Although it was a melancholy resolution, owing to its closing provision,it brought him the quiet that a perturbed mind often enjoys after theformation of a definite plan, no matter for its desperation. Morgan wentto the hotel, where Tom Conboy was still on duty smoking his cob pipe ina chair tilted back against a post of his portico.
"Well, the light's out up at Peden's," said Conboy, feeling a new andvast respect for this man who had proved his luck to the satisfaction ofall beholders in Ascalon that night.
"Yes," said Morgan, wearily, pausing at the door.
"They'll never be lit again in this man's town," Conboy went on, "andI'm one that's glad to see 'em go. Some of these fellers around town wassayin' tonight that Ascalon will be dead in the shell inside of threeweeks, but I can't see it that way. Settlers'll begin to come now, thathall of Peden's'll make a good implement store, plenty of room forthrashin' machines and harvesters. I may have to put up my rates alittle to make up for loss in business till things brighten up, but I'dhave to do it in time, anyhow."
"Yes," said Morgan, as listlessly as before.
"They say you made a stand with that gun of yours tonight that beatanything a man ever saw--three of 'em down quicker than you could strikea match! I heard one feller say--man! look at that badge of yours!"
Conboy got up, gaping in amazement. Morgan had stepped into the lightthat fell through the open door, passing on his way to bed. The metalshield that proclaimed his office was cupped as if it had been heldedgewise on an anvil and struck with a hammer. Morgan hastily detachedthe badge and put it in his poc
ket, plainly displeased by the discoveryConboy had made.
"Bullet hit it, square in the center!" Conboy said. "It was square overyour heart!"
"Keep it under your hat!" Morgan warned, speaking crossly, gloweringdarkly on Conboy as he passed.
"No niggers in Ireland," said Conboy, knowingly; "no-o-o niggers inIreland!"
Morgan regretted his oversight in leaving the badge in place. He hadintended to remove it, long before. As he went up the complaining stairshe pressed his hand to the sore spot over his heart where the bulletalmost had driven the badge into his flesh. Pretty sore, but not as soreas it was deeper within his breast from another wound, not as sore asthat other hurt would be tomorrow, and the heavy years to come.