CHAPTER XI
TANGLED THREADS
Relieved though Helen was to some extent, by her father's assurances andby the explanation which he had given, she was far from being in atranquil frame of mind.
She knew that whatever might be the outcome of the graver charge againstGordon, he would probably have to suffer for his release of Santry, andshe found herself wishing more than ever that her lover had never seenthe West. What little it had contributed to his character was not worthwhat it had cost already and would cost in the future. Surely, hismanhood was alive enough not to have needed the development of such anenvironment, and if his lot had been cast in the East, she could havehad him always with her. A long letter, which she had recently receivedfrom Maxwell Frayne, recounting the gayeties of New York and Washington,made her homesick. Although she could scarcely think of the two men atthe same moment, still, as she sat in the crude little hotel, she wouldhave welcomed a little of young Frayne's company for the sake ofcontrast. She was yearning for the flesh-pots of her own Egypt.
From the news of the fight at the ranch, which had been brought to townby the messenger, she gathered that Wade meant to intrench himself onthe ranch and defy the law, which would probably embroil him in othercriminal acts. Crawling Water, too, was rapidly filling up with armedcattlemen, who, she thought, would do Gordon's cause more harm thangood. Toward afternoon, word came of a bloody skirmish on the Trowbridgerange, between a number of his punchers and some of Moran's hired men,and that added to the tension among those crowding the main street.
From the parlor windows of the hotel she watched what was going onoutside, not without alarm, so high did feeling seem to run. The threatsof the ranch men, handed about amongst themselves but loud enough forher to catch a word now and then, made her wonder if the town was reallysafe for her father, or for herself. A storm was coming up, and therising wind whipped the flimsy lace curtains of the windows and keptthem fluttering like flags. The distant muttering of the thunder and anoccasional sharp flash of lightning wore on her tired nerves until shecould sit still no longer.
For the sake of something to do, she went up to her room, intending towrite some letters there, but her bed had not been made up, so shereturned to the parlor with her fountain pen and writing-pad. To MaxwellFrayne she wrote a brief note, which was not likely to cheer him much.She had become so in the habit of taking her moods out on Maxwell thatto do so, even with a pen, was second nature to her. She despised himfor his tolerance of her tyranny, never realizing that he reserved tohimself the privilege of squaring their account, if she should everbecome his wife.
Then to ease her mind of the strain it bore, she wrote at some length toher mother; not telling the whole truth but enough of it to calm her ownnervousness. She said nothing of the conversation she had overheard, butwent fully into the scene between her father and Gordon Wade. With alittle smile hovering on her lips, she wrote dramatically of theSenator's threat to crush the ranchman. "That will please mother," shesaid to herself, as her pen raced over the paper. "Gordon felt, you see,that"--she turned a page--"father knew Santry had not killed Jensen,and...."
The hotel-keeper poked his head in at the doorway.
"Two ladies to see you, Miss," he announced. "Mrs. Purnell anddaughter."
He gave Helen no chance to avoid the visit, for with the obviousness ofthe plains, he had brought the visitors upstairs with him, and so,blotting what she had written and weighing down her letter against thebreeze, she arose to greet them.
"This is good of you, Mrs. Purnell, and I am so glad to meet yourdaughter. I've been lonely and blue all day and now you have taken pityon me."
Mrs. Purnell shot an "I told you so" glance at Dorothy, which made thatyoung lady smile to herself.
"I was sorry not to have been at home when you called, Miss Rexhill."
The two girls looked at each other, each carefully veiling hostility,Dorothy beneath a natural sweetness of disposition, and Helen with the_savoir faire_ of social experience. Each felt and was stung by arealization of the other's points of advantage. Dorothy saw a perfectionof well-groomed poise, such as she could hardly hope to attain, andHelen was impressed with her rival's grace and natural beauty.
"Won't you sit down?"
"But aren't we disturbing you?" Mrs. Purnell asked, with a glance towardthe writing materials.
"Indeed, you are not. I was writing some duty letters to kill time. I'monly too glad to stop because I'm really in no writing mood and I ammost anxious to hear what is going on outside. Isn't it dreadful aboutMr. Wade?"
"You mean his helping Santry?" Dorothy asked, with a little touch ofpride which did not escape her hostess.
"Partly that; but more because he is sure to be arrested himself. I'vebeen terribly worried."
Dorothy glanced at her keenly and smiled.
"I have an idea that they may find Gordon hard to arrest," she remarked.
"Yes," Mrs. Purnell put in. "He is so popular. Still, I agree with youthat there is every cause for anxiety." The good lady did not have achance every day to agree with the daughter of a United States Senator,and the opportunity was not to be overlooked.
"The people feel so strongly that Santry should never have been arrestedthat they are not likely to let Gordon be taken just for freeing him,"Dorothy explained.
Helen shook her head with every indication of tremulous worry.
"But it isn't that alone," she insisted. "He's to be arrested for theJensen shooting. That was why the posse waited at his ranch after Santryhad been caught."
"For the Jensen shooting?" Dorothy showed her amazement very plainly."Are you sure?" she demanded, and when Helen nodded, exclaimed: "Why,how utterly absurd! I understood that you were with him yourself when hereceived word of it?"
"I was," Helen admitted. "He is supposed only to have planned the crime,I believe. He's supposed to have been the principal, isn't that whatthey call it?" She appealed to Mrs. Purnell.
"Oh, but do you think he could do such a thing?" Mrs. Purnell asked,much shocked.
"I don't know. I hope not."
"I _do_ know!" Dorothy burst out emphatically. "I know Gordon Wade toowell to think for one minute that he did it; and every true friend ofhis ought to speak out at once and say the same thing."
The challenge in her voice was unmistakable, and Mrs. Purnell moveduneasily in her chair. She glanced anxiously at Helen and was relievedto see that the latter had lost none of her poise.
"I hope so as fully as you do," Helen said sweetly, "but things move sofast here in these mountains that I find it hard to keep up with them."
"Of course," Mrs. Purnell soothed, with a troubled look at her daughter.
"Who swore out the warrant, I wonder?" Dorothy asked, in a more tranquiltone, a bit ashamed of her outburst. "Was it Mr. Moran?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Helen answered. "I supposed it was the Sheriff.Why should Mr. Moran have anything to do with it?"
"Because he seems to have been concerned in all the trouble we havehad," Dorothy replied calmly. "This was a peaceful little communityuntil Mr. Moran moved into it."
Helen made no direct reply to this, and for awhile Dorothy allowed hermother to sustain the conversation. She had no doubt but that Moran wasback of it all, and she was thinking of what Lem Trowbridge had said;that if they could only "get something on" Moran and the Senator, asolution of the whole problem would be at hand. She thought that she haddetected a defensive note in Helen's voice, and she was wondering why itshould have been there.
"But you haven't answered my question yet about Mr. Moran," Helenpresently challenged her. "You seemed to have something more in mindthan what you said. Would you mind telling me?"
Dorothy looked steadily but not offensively at her.
"Oh, it's nothing, Miss Rexhill. I was only thinking that he has gonerather far: been very zealous in your father's interests. Probably...."
"Why, Dorothy--!" her mother interposed, in a shocked tone.
"Miss Rexhill asked
me, mother, and you know that I always speakfrankly."
"Yes, do go on," Helen urged, with even an added touch of sweetness inher manner. "I really want to know. I am so out of touch with thingshere, so ill informed."
"Well, you can sit here at the windows and learn all you wish to know.There isn't a man in this town that would see Gordon arrested and notfight to free him. Feeling is running high here now. You know, it'ssomething like a violin string. You can stretch it just so far and thenit snaps. That's all."
"Dorothy, I'm really mortified that you...."
"Oh, you've no occasion to be, Mrs. Purnell," Helen interrupted,smiling. "I asked for the plain truth, you know."
Mrs. Purnell laughed feebly.
"Dorothy has known Mr. Wade so long and we both like him so well thatshe can't bear to hear a word against him," she explained. Her sense of_lese majeste_ was running away with her judgment, and Dorothy shot anirritated glance at her. "Not that I think he did it at all, youunderstand; but...."
"Oh, perfectly," declared Helen, with rising color and an equal feelingof annoyance. "Oh, dear me, do look at my poor letters!"
A gust of wind, stronger than any that had come before, had swept theweight to the floor and scattered letter paper, envelopes, and blotterabout the room. Helen was just able to catch the writing-pad as it slidto the floor, while Dorothy and her mother laughingly salvaged therest. The incident happily relieved the awkward drift of theirconversation, and they all felt relieved.
"Well, now, did you ever?" Mrs. Purnell ejaculated, looking at thelithographed blotter, which she held in her hand. "I declare thispicture of a little girl reminds me of Dorothy when she was that age."
"Oh, mother!"
"Really?" Helen broke in. "How interesting. I hadn't noticed thepicture. Do let me see."
To be courteous, she agreed with Mrs. Purnell that there was a stronglikeness, which Dorothy laughingly denied.
"I guess I know what you looked like when you were five better than youdo," Mrs. Purnell declared. "It's the image of you as you were then, andas Miss Rexhill says, there is a facial resemblance even yet."
"Perhaps you would like to take it with you, then," Helen suggested, toMrs. Purnell's delight, who explained that the only picture she had ofDorothy at that age had been lost.
"If it wouldn't deprive you?"
"No, indeed. You must take it. I have a large blotter in my writing-pad,so I really don't need that one at all. So many such things are sent tofather that we always have more than we can use up."
When Dorothy and her mother left the hotel, urged homeward by the firstbig drops of the coming rain, Mrs. Purnell tucked the blotter in thebosom of her dress, happy to have the suggestion of the picture torecall the days when her husband's presence cheered them all. Her worldhad been a small one, and little things like this helped to make itbright.
Soon afterward the supper bell rang, and during the meal Helen told theSenator, who seemed somewhat morose and preoccupied, of the visit shehad had.
"Sure tiresome people. Goodness! I was glad to see them at first becauseI thought they would help me to pass the afternoon, but instead I wasbored to death. That little minx is crazy about Gordon, though. I couldsee that."
"Um!"
"And the worst of it is that she just fits into the scenery here, and Idon't. You know, father, I never could wax enthusiastic over shooing thecows to roost and things like that."
"Um!"
"I feel like a deaf person at a concert, here in this town."
This remark brought a wry laugh from her father, and Helen smiled.
"Well, I've made you laugh, anyway," she said. "You're frightfullygrouchy this evening."
"My dear, I'm busy, very busy, and I haven't time to think of trifles.I'll be at it most of the night."
"Oh, shall you? Goodness, that's cheerful. I wish I had never come tothis awful little place. I suppose I must go back to my letters forsomething to do. And, father," she added, as he lingered with her for amoment in the hallway, "the Purnells seem to think that you and Mr.Moran had better not go too far. The people here are very much wroughtup."
He patted her shoulder affectionately.
"You leave all that to me and go write to your mother."
There was nothing else for her to do, so she returned to the parlor.When she had finished her letters, she idly picked up a week-old copy ofa Denver newspaper which lay on the table and glanced through theheadlines. She was yawningly thinking of bed, when Moran came into theroom.
"Oh, are you and father through at last?"
"Yes," he answered, smiling. "That is, we're through upstairs. I'm on myway over to the office to straighten up a few loose ends before I turnin. There's no rest for the weary, you know."
"Don't let me keep you, then," she said dryly, as he lingered. "I'mgoing to bed."
"You're not keeping me. I'm keeping myself." He quite understood hermotive, but he was not thin-skinned, and he had learned that he had tomake his opportunities with her. "Your father told me you were gettinganxious."
"Not anxious, tired."
"Things are getting a little warm here, but before there's any realdanger we expect to have the soldiers here to take charge."
He rather ostentatiously displayed his bandaged wrist, hoping to win hersympathy, but she professed none. Instead, she yawned and tapped herlips with her fingers, and her indifference piqued him.
"I was talking with Dorothy Purnell this afternoon," Helen finallyremarked, eyeing him lazily, "and she seems to be of the opinion thatyou'll have hard work arresting Gordon Wade. I rather hope that you do."
"Well--" He teetered a little on his feet and stroked his mustache. "Wemay have, at that. Miss Purnell is popular and she can make a lot oftrouble for us if she wants to. Being very fond of Wade, she's likely todo all that she can."
"Would she really have so much influence?" Helen asked, carefullyguarding her tongue.
He laughed softly as though amused at the thought.
"Influence? Evidently you don't realize what a good looking girl meansin a frontier town like this. She's part sister, part mother, sweetheartand a breath from Heaven to every man in Crawling Water. On thataccount, with one exception, I've had to import every last one of mymen. The exception is Tug Bailey, who's beyond hope where women areconcerned. To all the rest, Dorothy Purnell is 'Wade's girl,' and theywouldn't fight against her, or him, for all the money in Wyoming."
He was watching her keenly as he spoke, and was gratified to see spotsof color spring to her cheeks.
"How interesting!" Helen could make her tone indifferent to the point oflanguor, but she could not keep the gleam of jealousy out of her eyes."Gordon is a fortunate man to have such an able ally, isn't he?"
"The finish will decide that, I should say," Moran replied sneeringly."She may stir up more trouble than all her friends can take care of."
For all of her social schooling, Helen was not proof against the sneerin his words, even though she fully saw through his purpose to woundher. She felt her temper rising, and with it came curiosity to learn howfar the relationship between Wade and Dorothy Purnell had really gone.That Moran would exaggerate it, she felt sure, for he had his own endsto gain, but possibly from out of his exaggeration she could glean sometruth. Yet she did not want to go so far in her anger as to gratify hismalice, and this placed her in something of a dilemma.
"I don't believe that she is 'Wade's girl,' as you call her, at all,"she said coldly. "They may be good friends, and if so, I'm glad; butthey are nothing more than that. There is no 'understanding' betweenthem."
Moran carelessly waved his hand in the direction of the rain-sweptstreet, illuminated now and then by the lightning.
"Ask any one in Crawling Water."
"That sounds well, but it's impracticable, even if I wanted to do it. Iprefer to draw my own conclusions."
The agent drew up a chair with his well hand, and sat down with thateasy familiarity that came so natural to him. Helen watched him, lazilyimp
ertinent.
"I've been wanting to have a talk with you, Helen," he began, "and thislooks like a good chance to me. You've been foolish about Wade. Yes, Iknow that you're thinking that I've got my own ends to further, which istrue enough. I have. I admit it. But what I am going to tell you istrue, also. Fortune's been playing into my hand here lately. Now, ifyou'll be reasonable, you'll probably be happier. Shall I go on?"
"Wild horses couldn't stop you," she answered, amused that he seemedflattered. "But if we were in Washington, I fancy I'd have you shownout."
"We're not in Washington, my dear girl." He wagged his finger at her, inthe way her father had, to give emphasis to his words. "That's whereyou've made your mistake with Wade. We're all just plain men and womenout here in the cattle country, and I'm talking its language, not thelanguage of drawing-rooms." He was himself a little surprised at theswift dilation of her pupils, but his words had probed deeper than heknew, reminding her as they did of the truth which she had so fullyrealized that afternoon. "Wade liked you--loved you, maybe, in Chicago,but this ain't the East. He cares nothing for you here, and he'd neverbe happy away from here. You know that picture of yourself that you sentto him?" She nodded. "Well, we found it on the floor of his room,covered with dust. He hadn't even troubled to pick it up from where itmust have fallen weeks ago."
She looked at him dumbly, unable to keep her lips from twitching. Heknew that she believed him, and he was glad; that she had to believehim, because his story bore the impress of truth. It was not somethingthat he could have made up.
"And while your picture was lying there, Wade and this Purnell girl weremaking goo-goo eyes at each other. Why, it was she that rode out to warnhim that we were after Santry." Helen's lips curled. "I can't swear tothat, but I heard it and I believe it myself. They must've met on thetrail somewhere in the dark, and you can bet he was grateful. I don'timagine that they stopped at a hand-shake. I imagine they kissed, don'tyou?"
"Oh, I'm tired, worn out," Helen declared, forcing a smile so artificialthat it could not deceive him. "Do go, please. I am going upstairs tobed."
"Wait one minute." He put out his injured arm, and, thinking that hereached for her hand, she brushed it aside, accidentally striking hiswound.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you," she said coldly, as he winced.
"Maybe I've hurt you worse," he persisted, with a tenderness that wasintolerable to her, "but, if I have, your wound'll heal just as minewill." He gently pushed her back into her chair as she started to getup.
"Are you making love to me, Race?" Under the ridicule of her tone hisface darkened. "If you are, it's insufferable in you."
"Go easy, now," he warned her. "I'll not be made a fool of."
She did not heed his warning. Glad to have him on the rack, where shehad been, she laughed at him.
"Haven't you sense enough to know that, for that very reason, I'd refuseto believe anything you might say against Gordon Wade? I know how youhate him. Listen to me. Oh, this is absurd!" She laughed again at thepicture he made. "You've pursued me for months with your attentions,although I've done everything but encourage you. Now I want you to knowthat I shall never again even listen to you. What Gordon is to DorothyPurnell is for him, and her, and perhaps for me to be interested in, butnot for you. Now I'm going to bed. Good night!"
He caught her by the arm as she stood up, but immediately released her,and stepped in front of her instead.
"Hold on," he begged, with a smile that meant wonderful mastery ofhimself. "I've got feelings, you know. You needn't walk on them. I loveyou, and I want you. What I want, I usually get. I mean to get you." Shelooked up at him with heavy-lidded insolence. "I may fail, but if I do,it'll be one more notch in my account against Wade. I know now where tostrike him--to hurt."
"You be reasonable, and _you'll_ be happier," she retorted. "May I go?"
"Certainly." He stepped out of her way. "Good night."