VI
THE WOMAN AND THE MAN
The wagon-train under the command of Billy Knapp, and Alfred, and JimBuckley had a very hard trip before they were done with it. The onlydifficulty they did not encounter was lack of water. There was toomuch of that. Several times the party had to camp in one spot for dayswhile the wagons were laboriously warped across rivers of mud andquicksand, with steep, slippery clay banks. How little Prue stood thejourney so well, neither her father, her mother, nor the men of theparty were able to divine; but she did, and, what is more, she seemedto think it great fun. So cheerful was she, and so sunny, that the mencame to grudge each other her company. And as for Mrs. Prue and thedoctor, who could help loving the patient sweetness of the one, or thepathetic, gentle, impracticable kindness of the other?
Yes, it was a hard journey; but somehow the feeling was not entirely ofjoy and relief when the stockade of Frenchman's Creek shimmered acrossthe broad, flat foot-hills. There they separated. The dangers wereover.
Then, to the surprise of everyone, the doctor waked up and knew justwhere he wanted to go. He displayed an unexpected familiarity with thegeneral topography of the hills. It puzzled Billy. And, to the vasterastonishment of both his _confreres_, Jim suddenly announced, withquite unwonted volubility, that he had been intending all along tostart in prospecting at the end of this trip, and that here he meant toquit scouting and leave the society of his brothers in arms--unless, ofcourse, he added, as a doubtful afterthought, they wanted to join him.They profanely replied that they did not.
Most of the men pushed on immediately to Rockerville, whither amajority of the former inhabitants of Frenchman's Creek had alreadyemigrated. Alfred and Billy decided to get over in the Limestone for a"big hunt" before returning East. Prue said good-by to them with realfeeling, and most of them threw out their chests and were very gruffand rude because they were sorry to leave. Prue understood. They werekind-hearted men, after all, these rough pioneers. Billy rememberedfor almost two years how she looked when she said that, which wasextraordinary for Billy. He had led so varied a life as pony-expressrider, stage-driver, scout, Indian, bronco-buster, hunter, and trapper,that he had little room in his memory for anything short of bloodshedor a triumph for himself.
Finally, after all the rest had gone, Jim and the doctor made themutually delightful discovery that they had selected the same locality,the one for his prospecting, the other for his scientificinvestigations. So the doctor simply left his outfit in Jim's wagon,and they all went up together.
The little scientist was as excited as a child. To him the country wasas a document--a document which he had studied thoroughly in the pocketeditions. He now had it before him in the original manuscript, openand unabridged.
And indeed, even to an ordinary observer, the Black Hills are a strangeseries of formations.
They run north and south at the westernmost edge of the northernprairie, and are, altogether, about as large as the State of Vermont.Unlike other ranges, they possess no one ridge that serves as abackbone to the system. The separate peaks rise tumultuously, like therip of seas in a tideway, without connection, solitary, sombre.Between them lie deep gorges, or broad stretches of grass-park, whichdip away and away, until one catches the breath at the grand free sweepof them. Huge castellated dikes crop up from the ridge-tops likeramparts. Others rise parallel in the softest verdure, guardingbetween their perpendicular sides streets as narrow and clean-cut asthe alleys of a city of skyscrapers.
Through it all, back and forth, like the walls of a labyrinth, run thebroken, twisted, faintly defined geological systems, which cross eachother so frequently and so vigorously that all semblance of order islost in the tumultuous upheaval. Here are strata deposited by themiocene tertiary; here are breakings forth of metamorphic rocks of manyperiods; here are the complex results of diverse influences and forces.Down in the south is a great cavern--of which ninety-seven miles andtwenty-five hundred rooms have, at this writing, been explored--whichwas once the interior of a geyser. For ages it spouted; for ages moreits fluids crystallized and petrified into varied and beautiful forms;and then, finally, many layers of stratified rock were slowly overlaidto seal forever this dried-out, beautiful, lifeless mummy of a cave.It lies there now, as it has lain through the centuries, with a single,tiny opening by which it can be entered--a palace of vast re-echoinghalls, hung with jewels, a horror-haunted honeycomb of unsoundeddepths, a solemn abode wherein not the faintest drip of water, not thegentlest sigh of air through the corridors, breaks the eternal silence.Only its mouth roars continually as the winds rush in or out. TheIndians assign to it the spirits of their dead warriors, and cannot beinduced to approach it. Geologists rave over it, and cannot bepersuaded to come away.
But this is in the latter day of railroads and tenderfeet. At the timeof which this story treats, little was known of the country. It wassimply a great second-hand shop, of a little of everything in thegeological line.
When the party arrived at Spanish Gulch, the doctor was so eager to getinto the wonderful hills that only with the greatest difficulty did heconstrain himself to help Jim erect a log cabin for the accommodationof his family. Even then he was not of much use, although he could atleast help to lift timbers. Jim practically did it alone, and it tookhim almost a month; but when it was done, it was very nice. The doctoraccepted the free gift of the scout's labor and skill quite as a matterof course, just as he had taken the free gift of an ordinarilyexpensive pilotage across the plains; but the woman appreciated, andperhaps she understood, for she suddenly became very shy in Jim'spresence. And then, sometimes, she would gaze at him, when he was notlooking, with an adoration of gratitude filling her eyes.
After the doctor's home was finished, Jim betook himself into anothergulch, where he constructed a less elaborate shelter for his ownoccupation. Thenceforward he spent much of his time in mysteriousprospecting operations; but two or three times a week he liked to sitperfectly silent under the tree which overshadowed the doctor's cabin,watching Prue, if she happened to be near, playing with Miss Prue, ortrying to talk with the doctor. He never went inside the house, evenin the winter; and he never seemed to try to know Prue any moreintimately. It would have been difficult for him to say just whatpleasure he discovered in these visits.
After a little, the routine of life became fixed. The doctor took uphis work systematically. Each morning he plunged into the hills. Hislittle bent form moved from ridge to ridge, following his own especialleads as earnestly as the most eager gold prospector of them all.Sometimes he got lost, but generally he managed to reach home atsunset. He was entirely preoccupied. He ate his meals as they wereset before him without question, he pulled on his well-mended clotheswithout noticing the new patches, he warmed himself before his firewithout a thought of whence came the wood, blazing up the mud-chimney.
Prue at first wondered a little at this, for even in his intensestabsorption the doctor's home-life had been much to him; but in time shecame to appreciate his mood, and to rely on herself even more thanusual. She had such an exalted opinion of his work that she easilyfell into the habit of sacrificing herself to it. She watched for thethings that pleased him, or, rather, did not bother him, for hispleasures were negative; she carefully excluded all disturbinginfluences, and came to look on this lonely time as only a probation,sooner or later to be over, after which, in the fulness of his success,he would turn to her with his old love. To hasten this she would havecut off her right hand.
So, much to the disgust of Jim Buckley, the brave little woman took themanagement of things upon herself. During the long days, while thedoctor was away, she schemed to make both ends meet. She raised a fewvegetables in a plot of open ground on the sunny side of the creek,working in it daily with an old spade. Her face was hidden in thedepths of a sunbonnet, and her hands were covered with a pair ofdeerskin gauntlets, for she could not forget, poor woman! that she wasgently bred, and she hated to see her skin reddening in the dry air o
fthe hills.
Items of necessity she bought scantily, sparingly, of travellingpedlars, for prices were high. Candles for the winter, corn-meal,occasionally flour, coffee, sugar--all these counted. Things cost somuch more here than she had anticipated. Prue saw the end coming,distant though it might be. She sometimes did little bits of mendingfor passing miners, and was paid for it. Oftener she skimped on thedaily meals, pretending that she was tired and did not care to eat.The doctor never noticed, nor did she mean that he should.
In the presence of his work, he could think of nothing else. Once,when they ran out of wood, she told him of it. It worried him for aweek. Material necessities drew his mind away from the attitude ofcalm scientific investigation. The pile of fuel that goes with everynew shack lasted the first winter through. After that was gone, Prueused the chips made when the house was built, as long as they held out.Then she tried to chop down a tree herself. Jim Buckley found hersitting on a stone, the axe between her knees, her face buried in herhands. Beside her was a pine scarred at random with weak, ill-directedblows. He made a few profane remarks into his thick beard concerningthe doctor, then took the axe from her, and started to work. In a weekenough firewood was piled over against the house to last the winter.During that week he ate his noon meals in the little cabin. The womandid her best, and used up a fortnight's provisions in the attempt tomake a respectable showing before the hungry man. But in spite of thathe saw through her pitiful efforts, and offered to let her have money.She drew herself up and showed him the door. When he had gone,bewildered, she went out and looked at the white shining wood-pile andwept bitterly.
But in spite of economy the closest, and the sacrifice of absolutelyevery non-essential, the time came when the last cent had gone. Thewoman stood face to face with want. And, as ill-luck would have it, atthis period the doctor was especially brimming with enthusiasm, for hehad almost achieved the one result he needed to fill out his scheme.He worked feverishly to forestall the snow. He was full of his system,alternating between glowing enthusiasm and a haunting fear that thewinter would set in too early. He must have uninterrupted time forwork until then, he said. On this depended his professionalreputation, their fortune.
She set her lips firmly and looked about her. The flour and meal weregone; there were no candles, and without candles how could the doctorput the last touches to his book when winter fell? Little lightfiltered through the oiled paper of the windows. She sold her ring tosome passing gamblers. The money soon slipped away. For a few daysshe fought hard with her pride. Then she put on her sunbonnet, and,kissing the child tenderly, went, with heightened color, down the gulchto Jim Buckley's.
She found him sitting on a stump in front of his dirt-roofed shack,pounding into sand some quartz in an iron mortar. He did not hear heruntil she stood beside him. Then he arose, drawing his gaunt form upquickly, taking off his broad hat, and wiping his grimy hands on hisjeans.
"Mr. Buckley," she said hurriedly, before he could speak, "I have cometo tell you how sorry I am that I was so rude to you. You have beenvery kind to me, and I had no right to speak to you as I did. No, no!"she implored, as Jim opened his mouth to expostulate. "I must tell youthat, and _please_ don't interrupt me.
"My husband is doing some very valuable work," Prue continued, "veryvaluable, and when he gets it done he will be very famous and veryrich. But just now it takes all his time and attention, so that hedoesn't realize--how--poor--we--are." The little woman's cheeksburned, and she lowered her head until the sunbonnet hid her face. "Ofcourse, if I should tell him," she went on proudly, "he would attend toit at once. But I mustn't do that. He needs _such_ a little time tofinish his work, and I mustn't--must I?" And she suddenly looked upinto Jim's honest eyes with an imploring gesture.
Jim was standing, his broad hat against his knee, looking at herfixedly. No doubt he was thinking how, when he had first seen her, hercheeks were as full and ripe as the apples of his old home in NewEngland; and was wondering if the dip of strata were worth this.Seeing that he intended no reply, she looked down again and went on.
"I came here to see you about that. Once, Mr. Buckley, you offered tolend me some money, and I--I--am afraid I was very rude. And now--oh,dear!" And suddenly the poor little figure in faded and patched calicosank to the ground, and began to sob as if her heart would break.
Jim was distressed. He started forward, hesitated, looked up at thesky and down the gulch. Then he threw down his hat and darted into thecabin, returning in a moment with a buckskin bag, which he tossedimpulsively into her lap.
"There, there!" he said distractedly. "Why didn't you say so before?Stop! _Please_ stop! Oh, the----"
She looked up suddenly with a blinding smile.
"Now, don't say anything naughty!" she cried airily through her tears.She laughed queerly at Jim's open mouth and astonished eyes. He couldnot grasp the meaning of her change of mood. Before he could recover,she was on her feet, a roguish vision of blushing cheeks and dancingeyes. She shook the buckskin bag in his face.
"Aren't you afraid you'll never be paid, sir?" she demanded; then, witha quick sob, "I think you are the kindest man in all the world!" Thenext instant the alders closed about her fluttering figure on thetrail. For a week after, her cheeks burned, and she was afraid to lookout of the cabin lest Jim should be coming up the path.
As the winter wore away, however, she began to see the bottom of thelittle buckskin bag. The doctor was as absorbed as ever. She couldnot bring her pride to the point of asking Buckley for another loan,and so again the terror of poverty seized upon her. Her eyes lookedharassed and worn, and her mouth had queer little lines in the corners.She would stand watching the flames in the chimney for hours, and thenwould turn suddenly, hungrily, and snatch up the little girl, devouringher with kisses. Sometimes she would wrinkle her brow, peeping intothe doctor's manuscripts, trying to make out how near the end he was,but she always laid them down with a puzzled sigh. She did not eatenough, and she grew thin. She tried expedients of which she had read.For instance, one day she went down into the creek bottom and cut somewillows. She peeled the bark from them, and from the inside rind shecollected a quantity of fine white dust, with which she made a pastykind of dough. The biscuits were tough and of a queer flavor. Eventhe doctor, after tasting one of them, looked up in surprise.
"What do you call this, my dear?" he inquired.
She clapped her hands gayly, and laughed with a catch in her voice.
"Oh, a queer Indian dish I've learned, that's all. You never _do_ payany attention to what you eat, so I thought I'd make you for once."
"Oh," said the doctor, smiling faintly.
The willow flour appeared no more.
So the long winter drew to its close, and still the brave little womanset her face resolutely forward, striving to help the doctor with hislife-work as only a woman can. She could see no way out. The case washopeless, and often she shed impotent tears over her inability. Heworked so hard, and she did so little!
And then the spring brought with it the solution.