The Forfeit

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE BARRIER

  Jeff was abroad at daylight. Even Bud, whose habit was sunrise, had notyet wakened from his heavy slumbers. But Nan was stirring. She heardJeff moving, and she saw him beyond her window. She saw him bring hishorse from the barn, saddled and bridled. In a moment he had mounted andridden away. Then she dressed, and, for the rest, wondered at thepossible outcome of it all. Half an hour later the sun rose and theday's work began.

  When Jeff reached his home it was still wrapped in the habit of night.There was no one and nothing stirring, for, as yet, only the golden glowof the eastern sky promised the coming of day.

  His mood was bitter. But his purpose was calculated and deliberate. Hehad given his promise in answer to Nan's irresistible pleading. Butotherwise the man was completely unchanged. He moved away down to thecorrals, and leaned against the great lateral rails which closed theentrance. The beasts within were chewing the cud, and still picking atthe remains of their overnight feed.

  They were a goodly sight to eyes that understood the meaning of suchthings. It was only one of a number of corrals similarly crowded withbeasts, that were, for various reasons, herded in shelter at night.These were a few, a very few of the vast numbers which bore the familiar"O----" brand. There were the outlying stations which harbored theirhundreds. There were the pastures with their complement of breedingcows. Then there were the herds of two- and three-year-olds roaming theplains at their will, fattening for the buyers who came at intervals.

  Thoughts of these things compelled Jeff now. And he saw what Nan hadsaved him from. Wreck had been threatening in the course he had markedout for himself at first. How could prosperity have maintained under theconditions he would have imposed? Even now, under the modification whichNan had appealed for, he failed to see the continuation of that successhe had striven so hard for. The incentive was no longer in him, he toldhimself. Where lay the use, the purpose in it all? The future? Thatdream future which had come to him could never mature now. It was nolonger a dream. It was nightmare.

  He wondered why he had yielded to Nan's entreaty. It all seemed sopurposeless now in the broad light of day. He could force himself tolive with his wife--under the same roof. Perhaps in time he could evenmeet her in daily intercourse. She might even become a factor in thegreat work of the Obar. But the joy of achievement had been snatchedfrom him. All that he had foreseen might be achieved in the work, even.But the process would have been completely robbed of its inspiration, andwas therefore not to be counted worth while.

  The thought of the woman's regard for him left him cold. He dwelt uponit. Suddenly he wondered. Two days ago he could not have thought of itwithout a thrill. Now it meant--nothing. He remembered Nan's appeal.Why--why had it affected him last night? It had not been becauseof--Evie.

  Nan had talked of justice--duty. He could see no appeal in either now.Why should he be forced to observance of the laws of justice, or--dutytoward a woman who----?

  He stirred restlessly. His attention was drawn to his horse. He movedover to it and off-saddled. Then he returned to his place at the corral.The sun was just breaking the horizon. He heard sounds of life comingfrom the bunkhouse.

  Nan's appeal no longer convinced him--now that he was away from her.But--he had pledged his word. He could not break his word to Nan,although he longed--madly longed to resaddle his horse and ride away, andleave behind him forever this place which had suddenly become so full ofbitter memories. No--he had pledged his word.

  Soon he must once more confront his wife. He reviewed the possibilities.The night long he had spent in considering the position he intended toplace before her. Would she accept it? And--what then? The long daysof work, unlit by any hope of the future. The process of building,building, which all men desire, without that spark of delight whichinspires the desire. Just the drudgery of it. The resulting wealth andcommercial power of it maybe, but not one moment of the joy with whichonly two days before he had regarded the broad vista of the future.

  Now the smell of cooking reached him from the bunkhouse. Several menwere moving down toward the corrals. He passed on toward the house. Amoment or so later he stood on the veranda gazing out at the streamingcattle as they moved toward the wide home pastures, under the practisedhands of the ranchmen. It was a sight to inspire any cattleman, and, fora moment, the brooding eyes of the master of it all lit with a flash oftheir former appreciation. But the change was fleeting. The blue depthsclouded again. The question once more flashed through hisbrain--what--what was the use of it all?

  None, none at all. Every dream had been swept from his waking thoughts.Every enchanting emotion was completely dead. The woman who had inspiredthe rose-tinted glasses through which he had gazed upon the future nolonger had power so to inspire him. By her own action she had takenherself out of his life. She could never again become a part of it. Hewould live on with her, under the same roof, a mockery of the life whichtheir marriage imposed upon them. He had pledged that to Nan, and hewould not break his word to--Nan. But love? His love was gone. It wasdead. And he knew that the ashes of that once passionate fire couldnever be stirred into being again.

  There was a rustle of skirts behind him. He heard, but did not turn. Afierce passion was rising to his brain, and he dared not turn until hehad forced it under restraint.

  "You have come back, Jeff?"

  The voice was low and soft. There was something tragically humble in itstone.

  The man turned.

  "Yes, Evie." Then he added: "I told you I would."

  His voice was gentler than he knew. The harshness of their previousmeeting had gone out of it. Nor was he aware of the change, nor of thereason, although in his mind was the memory of his promise to Nan.

  "And you'll tell me your decision--now?"

  The humility was heart-breaking. Nor was the man unaffected by it. Helooked into the beautiful face, for the dark eyes were averted. Then hisgaze dropped to the charming figure daintily clad in a simple morningfrock of subtle attraction. But his eyes came back to the face with itscrowning of beautiful dark hair, nor was there any change in theirexpression as a result of their survey.

  "As well now as later."

  "What is it?"

  For the first time Jeff found himself gazing into the wide dark eyes.There was pain in them. Apprehension. There were the signs about themof long sleepless nights. He shut the sight of these things out by theprocess of turning away to observe the general movement going on in thenear distance.

  "Guess there's no use to say a deal," he said, a curiously moody notetaking possession of his voice. "If I did, why, I'd likely say a wholeheap more than a man may say to his wife. Guess the right an' wrong ofthings had best lie in our hearts. You know just what you did, and whyyou did it. I know what you did, an' can only guess why you did it. Idon't figger any talk could convince either of us different to how wethink and feel. Maybe there's Someone knows the rights of this thingbetter than either of us. That being so, I allow He'll ultimately fixthings as He intends. Meanwhile it's for us to do as we feel, just sofar as our personal earthly concerns go."

  The coldness in his voice had grown, and it left Evie with a completesense of hopelessness that was harder to bear than any fears whichviolence of language might have inspired.

  His pause was prolonged. She made no effort to break it, she dared notbreak it. For the man, he was gathering the threads of what he had tosay so as to deliver it concretely. He feared to prolong this interview.In view of his decision he must not risk any violent outbreak such as hisfeelings were even now striving to force upon him.

  "Maybe you'll remember what I said to you about Ronny just after wewere--married. I don't guess you'll have forgotten, seeing things are asthey are. What I said then stands now. If you'd been a man I'd haveshot you down in your tracks when I got to home last night. That shouldsay all that need be said about how I'm feeling now. You aren't a man,a
nd you're my wife. Well--you're still my wife. That means it's up tome to keep you as though this thing hadn't broken things up. I intend toact as right as I can by you. This is your home. You must use it, ifyou feel that way. The Obar has to go on. It's your means of living.It's my means of living. Then there are others concerned in it. Forthese reasons I shall carry on things, and your knowledge of this sort ofwork should hand you a reasonable share in the running of this place. Ifyou feel you can act this way, without remembering we're man and wife,why, I guess we can agree to live our--separate--lives under the sameroof. If you don't feel you can do this, why, you need to say so righthere an' now, an' state your wishes. I'll do my best to carry themthrough, provided you understand our lives are separate from now on. Doyou get that?"

  Did she get it? Could there be any mistaking those cold tones, thatruthless decision?

  From slightly behind him Elvine had stood watching with straining eyesthe still figure, speaking with so obvious a repression of feeling, hiseyes steadily fixed upon the distant horizon. Once or twice an ominousflush had suddenly flamed up in her eyes. A deep flush had stained hercheeks. But as he ceased speaking the same shrinking, the same humilitymarked her attitude. She knew instinctively she dared not say the thingsshe was yearning to pour out. She knew instinctively that any suchcourse would at once break down that thin veneer of restraint he wasexercising. And for perhaps the first time in her life she stood awedand cowed by a man.

  But this woman was the slave of her passions, and she knew it. It wasthis now that made a coward of her. With all the power of self in hershe had abandoned herself to her love for her husband. And, with slavishsubmission, she was prepared to accept his words rather than banishherself out of his presence altogether. A mad, wild hope lay somewheredeep down in her heart that some day he could be made to forget. Thatsome day, through what looked to her like endless days of devotion andhelp, she might win back something of what she had lost. She knew herown attraction. She knew her own powers. Might there not then be hopein the dim future?

  She had no pride where Jeff was concerned. She wanted him. His love wasall life to her now. If she had followed the natural course which shouldhave been hers and refused his proposal, she would have been closing thedoor, finally, upon all that made life possible. If she submitted therestill remained to her the vaguest possible shadow of hope. This was herthought and motive in the crisis with which she was faced, and hercalculations were made out of her yearning, and without trueunderstanding of the man with whom she was dealing.

  Jeff awaited her decision under an enforced calm.

  "It's for you to say," she said, after some moments. "Nor is the choicemine. I shall obey. You've said I can help in the work. Maybe it's myright. I'll claim that right anyway. It's the only right I'll claim.I've only one other thing to say, and maybe you'll let me speak it thisonce."

  "Go on."

  "I didn't guess I was doing wrong. I don't know now I did wrong.Anyway, if what I did was wrong it's against God's laws and not man's.Maybe you've a right to punish me. I don't know. Anyway, my life andinterests are bound to yours, and I want you to know every effort of minewill be to further--your interests. This has made no change in me--thatway. You can trust me as you'd trust yourself. I'm not here to squealfor any mercy from you, Jeff. And maybe some day you'll--understand. Iguess your breakfast's ready. I'll have mine later."

  * * * * * *

  Later in the day Elvine rode out from the ranch house. Nor did sheconcern herself with her object, nor her course, beyond a wild desire forthe solitude of the hills. The full torture of the new life, on thethreshold of which she now stood, had not come upon her until after theeffects of her interview with her husband had had time to calm down.Then to remain in the house, which had become a sort of prison to her,was made impossible. She must get out. She must break into activity.She felt that occupation alone could save her reason.

  So she struck out for the hills. Their claim of earlier days was uponher. The hills, and their wooded valleys. Their brooding calm, theirdark shadows, their mysterious silence. These things claimed her mood.

  She rode recklessly across the wide spread of Rainbow-Hill Valley. Shehad no thought for the horse under her. She would have welcomed thepitfalls which mighty have robbed her of the dreadful consciousness ofthe disaster which had overwhelmed her. She was striving to flee fromthoughts from which she knew there was no escape. She was striving tolose herself in the activities of the moment.

  The switchback of the plain rose and fell under her horse's busy hoofs.It rose higher, and ever higher, as she approached the western slopes.She left the fenced pastures behind her, and the last signs of the lifeto which she was now committed. Before her the woodlands rose upshrouded in their dark foliage. The mourning aspect of the pines suitedher temper; she felt as though their drooping boughs were in harmony withthe bereavement of her soul.

  She plunged amidst the serried aisles of leafless trunks with somethinglike welcome for their shadows. She rode on regardless of distance anddirection.

  From the crest of a hill she looked down upon narrow mountain creeksurging between borders of pale green foliage. The sound of the waterscame up to her, and the wilderness of it all appealed, as, at thatmoment, nothing else could have appealed. She pressed her blowing horseforward, and rode down to the banks so densely overgrown.

  She leaped from the saddle. She relieved her horse of its saddle andflung herself upon the mossy ground in the shelter of a cluster ofspruce. The humid heat was oppressive. The tumbling waters were unableto stir the atmosphere. But their music was soothing, and the sight oftheir turbulent rush seemed to hold sympathy for her troubled heart. Andso she lay there, her head propped upon a supporting hand, and yieldedherself to the sway of her emotions.

  After a while tears dimmed her eyes. They overflowed down her cheeks.She had reached the end of endurance before yielding to her woman'spitiful weakness. Time had no meaning now. Place had lost itsinfluence. She saw nothing, knew nothing but the trouble which hadrobbed her of all she lived for.

  Then came the inevitable. Her tears eventually relaxed the tension ofher nerves, and, after several ineffectual attempts to keep them open,the weight of the atmosphere closed her eyes and yielded her the finalmercy of sleep.

  * * * * * *

  Elvine awoke with a start. She awoke with the conviction of the presenceof the man she had met in the hill regions before. She knew some one wasnear her, but, for the moment----

  Yes. She sat up. A pair of brown eyes were gazing down into hers. Thencame the voice, and it was low, and gentle. It had nothing startling init.

  "Why, say, an' I've been hunting your trail this hour, taking youfor--some one else."

  Nan had been standing with her arm linked through her horse's reins. Nowshe relinquished them, and flung herself upon the ground before thestartled woman.

  Elvine stared at her with unease in her dark eyes. Nor did she gainreassurance from the pretty face with its soft brown hair, and thegraceful figure beneath its brown cloth riding suit. Yet she was notinsensible to the companionship. Her greater fears had been of the man,Sikkem, who had been in her waking thoughts.

  "You were following my tracks?" she demanded uncertainly.

  Nan's eyes grew grave.

  "I certainly was. Though I didn't guess they were yours. Say, you musthave crossed the tracks I was following," she added thoughtfully. "Didyou see anybody? Four fellers? Mighty tough-looking citizens, an'strangers?"

  The frankness of the girl reestablished confidence.

  Elvine sat up.

  "No," she said. Then the wonder of it possessed her. "But you--youalone were following on the tracks of four tough strangers?" she criedincredulously.

  Nan smiled. Her smile was pretty. It was a confident, wise little smile.

  "Sure," she said. "I saw them, and it was up to me. Yo
u see, Evie, wefolks out here kind of need to think diff'rent. A girl can't just helpbeing a girl, but when rustlers are around, raising small Cain with hermen-folks' goods, why, she's got to act the way they would when theylight on a suspicious trail. I was guessing that track would lead mesomewhere. But," she added with a grimace, "I wasn't as smart as Ifiggered. You must have crossed it, an' I lost 'em."

  "But can't you get back to it? Maybe I can help some. I've followed atrail before," Elvine added, in a tone which Nan understood better thanthe other knew.

  But the girl shook her head.

  "My plug is tired, and there's the chase back to home. I guess we'llleave 'em, and just--report. But there's something doing. I meansomething queer. These folk don't reckon to show themselves in daytime,and I guess they were traveling from the direction of Spruce Crossing."

  "That's where the man Sikkem's stationed," said Elvine.

  "Sure. But I don't guess they been near his shanty. They wouldn't fancygettin' around Sikkem's lay-out in daytime. You see, he's--sudden."

  Nan's confidence was not without its effect. But Elvine was less sure.

  "This Sikkem. I don't like him. But----"

  Nan dismissed the matter in her own way.

  "Sikkem's been on the ranch nigh three years. He's a cattleman first,and hates rustlers worse than poison. But he's tough. Oh, he's tough,all right. I wouldn't gamble a pea-shuck he hasn't quite a dandy bunchof notches on his gun. But we're used to his sort."

  Then she went on in a reflective fashion as though hollowing out a trainof thought inspired by the man under discussion:

  "Sort o' seems queer the way we see things. Right here on the prairie wemostly take folks on trust, an' treat 'em as we find 'em. Maybe they'rewanted for all sorts of crimes. Maybe they done a turn in penitentiary.Maybe they even shot up folk cold. These things don't signify a centwith us so they handle cattle right, and are ready to push lead into anybunch of rustlers lyin' around. Guess it's environment makes us thatway. The prairie's so mighty wide it helps us folks to get wide."

  Evie was watching the play of the girl's expressive eyes.

  "I wonder--if you're right."

  "Mostly, I guess."

  "Mostly?"

  Nan nodded.

  "It isn't easy to condemn amongst folks on the prairie," she said with asigh.

  Elvine shook her head. Her eyes were turned from the girl. They werestaring down into the turbulent stream.

  "I don't think I've found it that way."

  "How?"

  The interrogation was natural. But it brought Elvine's eyes sharply tothe girl's, and, for a moment, they gazed steadily into each other's.

  Then the woman's graceful shoulders went up.

  "I see you know."

  "And--you aren't mad with me for knowing? You aren't mad with Jeff forme knowing? I wanted you to know I knew. I wanted to tell you I knew,only I didn't just know how to tell you. Then I wanted to tellyou--something else."

  There was simple sincerity in every word the girl spoke. The light inher eyes was shining with truth. Elvine saw it, and knew these thingswere so, and, in her loneliness of heart, in her brokenness of spirit,she welcomed the chance of leaning for support upon a soul so obviouslystrong and sympathetic. She yielded now as she would never have believedit possible to yield.

  Suddenly she raised her hands to her head and pressed her fingers to hertemples.

  "Oh, I--I don't know what to do. I sort of feel I just can't--can't stoparound. And yet---- Oh, I love him so I can't, daren't leave himaltogether. You can't understand, child, no one can. You--oh, you'venever known what love is, my dear. I'm mad--mad for him. And--and I cannever come into his life again."

  She dropped her hands from her head in a movement that to Nan seemed asthough she were wringing them. Nan's own heart was thumping in herbosom. She, too, could have cried out. But her eyes steadily, andalmost tenderly, regarded the woman who had taken Jeff from her.

  "You must stop around," she said in a low, firm tone. "Say, Evie, Idon't guess I'm bright, or clever, or anything like that. I don't reckonI know things different to other folk. But just think how it would be ifyou went away now. You'd never see Jeff again, maybe, and he'd neverknow just how you love him. You see, men-folk are so queer, too. MaybeJeff's right, and you and me are wrong. Maybe we're right, and he's allwrong. I can't say. But I tell you Jeff needs you now--more than ever.He don't know it, maybe. But he wants you, and if you love him you'lljust--stand by. Oh, I could tell you of a thousand ways you can helphim. A thousand ways you can show him your love without telling him. Itmeans a hard fight for you. I know. And maybe you'll think he isn'tworth it. But he is--to you. You love him. And any man a woman lovesis worth to her every sacrifice she can make. I don't know. Maybe yougot to be punished, not by us folk, not for what you done to Jeff. ButSomeone guesses you got to be punished, and this is the way He's fixedit. Say, Evie, you won't let go of things, will you? Maybe you can'tsee ahead just now. But you will--later. You love Jeff, and he justloves you, though he's sort of blind to it now. But he loves you, an' noone else. He wouldn't act the way he's doing if it weren't so. I sortof felt I must say all this to you. I--I don't know why--just. But Iwon't ever talk like this again. I haven't a right, I know. But I don'tmean harm. I don't sure. And if you'll let me help you anyway I canI'll--be real glad."