The Price of the Prairie: A Story of Kansas

  CHAPTER XIV

  DEEPENING GLOOM

  A yellow moon in splendor drooping, A tired queen with her state oppressed, Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping, Lies she soft on the waves at rest. The desert heavens have felt her sadness; The earth will weep her some dewy tears; The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, And goeth stilly, as soul that fears.

  --JEAN INGELOW.

  The easiest mental act I ever performed was the act of forgetting theexistence of Rachel Melrose. Before the stage had reached the dividebeyond the Wakarusa on its southward journey, I was thinking only ofSpringvale and of what would be written in the letter that I knew waswaiting for me in our "Rockport." Oh, I was a fond and foolish lover. Iwas only twenty-one and Judson may have been right about my beingcallow. But I was satisfied with myself, as youth and inexperience willbe.

  Travelling was slow in those rough-going times, and a breakdown on asteep bit of road delayed us. Instead of reaching home at sunset, we didnot reach the ford of the Neosho until eight o'clock. As I went up CliffStreet I turned by the bushes and slid down the rough stairway to theledge below "Rockport." I had passed under the broad, overhanging shelfthat made the old playground above, when I suddenly became aware of thenearness of some one to me, the peculiar consciousness of the presenceof a human being. The place was in deep shadow, although the full moonwas sailing in glory over the prairies, as it had done above the loneTopeka locust tree. My daily visits here had made each step familiar,however. I was only a few feet from the cunningly hidden crevice thathad done post-office duty for Marjie and me in the days of ourchildhood. Just beside it was a deep niche in the wall. Ordinarily I wasfree and noisy enough in my movements, but to-night I dropped silentlyinto the niche as some one hurried by me, groping to find the way.Instinctively I thought of Jean Pahusca, but Jean never blundered likethis. I had had cause enough to know his swift motion. And besides, hehad been away from Springvale so long that he was only a memory now. Thefigure scrambled to the top rapidly.

  "I'll guess that's petticoats going up there," I said mentally, "butwho's hunting wild flowers out here alone this time of night? Somebodyjust as curious about me as I am about her, no doubt. Maybe some girlhas a lover's haunt down that ledge. I'll have to find out. Can't let mystairway out to the general climbing public."

  I was feeling for the letter in the crevice.

  "Well, Marjie has tucked it in good and safe. I didn't know that holewas so deep."

  I found my letter and hurried home. It was just a happy, loving messagewritten when I was away, and a tinge of loneliness was in it. But Marjiewas a cheery, wholesome-spirited lass always, and took in the world fromthe sunny side.

  "There's a party down at Anderson's to-night, Phil," Aunt Candaceannounced, when I was eating my late supper. "The boys sent word foryou to come over even if you did get home late. You are pretty tired,aren't you?"

  "Never, if there's a party on the carpet," I answered gayly.

  I had nearly reached the Anderson home, and the noisy gayety of theparty was in my ears, when two persons met at the gate and went slowlyin together.

  It was Amos Judson and Lettie Conlow.

  "Well, of all the arrangements, now, that is the best," I exclaimed, asI went in after them.

  Tillhurst was talking to Marjie, who did not see me enter.

  "Phil Baronet! 'The handsome young giant of the Neosho,'" O'mie shouted."Ladies and gentlemen: This is the very famous orator who got moreapplause in Topeka this week than the very biggest man there. Oh, myprophetic soul! but we were proud av him."

  "Well, I guess we were," somebody else chimed in. "Why didn't you comehome with the crowd, handsome giant?"

  "He was charmed by that pretty girl, an old sweetheart of his fromMassachusetts." Tillhurst was speaking. "You ought to have seen him withher, couldn't even leave when the rest of us did."

  There was a sudden silence. Marjie was across the room from me, but Icould see her face turn white. My own face flamed, but I controlledmyself. And Bud, the blessed old tow-head, came to my rescue.

  "Good for you, Phil. Bet we've got one fellow to make a Bothton girlopen her eyeth even if Tillhurtht couldn't. He'th jutht jealouth. But weall know Phil! Nobody'll ever doubt old Philip!"

  It took the edge off the embarrassment, and O'mie, who had sidled overinto Marjie's neighborhood, said in a low voice:

  "Tillhurst is a consummit liar, beautiful to look upon. That girl taggedPhil. He couldn't get away an' be a gintleman."

  I did not know then what he was saying, but I saw her face bloom again.

  Later I had her alone a moment. We were eating water melon on the backporch, half in the shadow, which we didn't mind, of course.

  "May I take you home, Marjie, and tell you how sweet that letter was?" Iasked.

  "Phil, I didn't know you were coming, and Richard Tillhurst asked mejust as you came in. I saw Amos Judson coming my way, so I made for thenearest port."

  "And you did right, dearie," I said very softly; "but, Marjie, don'tforget you are my girl, my only girl, and I'll tell you all about thisTopeka business to-morrow night. No, I'll write you a letter to-nightwhen I go home. You'll find it at 'Rockport' to-morrow."

  She smiled up at me brightly, saying contentedly, "Oh, you are alwaysall right, Phil."

  As we trailed into the kitchen from the water melon feast, LettieConlow's dress caught on a nail in the floor. I stooped to loose it, andrasped my hand against a brier clinging to the floppy ruffle (Lettie wasmuch given to floppy things in dress), and behold, a sprig of little redblossoms was sticking to the prickles. These blooms were the kind Marjiehad sent me in her letter to Topeka. They grew only in the crevicesabout the cliff. It flashed into my mind instantly that it was Lettiewho had passed me down on that ledge.

  "I suppose I'll find her under my plate some morning when I go tobreakfast," I said to myself. "She is a trailer of the Plains. Whyshould she be forever haunting my way, though?"

  Fate was against me that night. Judson was called from the party to openthe store. A messenger from Red Range had come posthaste for somemerchandise. We did not know until the next day that it was the burialclothes for the beautiful young girl whose grave held Dave Mead's heart.

  Before Judson left, he came to me with Lettie.

  "Will you take this young lady home for me? I must go to the store atonce. Business before pleasure with me. That's it, business first. Verysorry, Miss Lettie; Phil will see you safely home."

  I was in for the obligation. The Conlows lived four blocks beyond theshop down toward the creek. The way was shadowy, and Lettie clung to myarm. I was tired from my stage ride of a day and a half, and I had notslept well for two nights. I distrusted Lettie, for I knew herdisposition as I knew her father's before her.

  "Phil, why do you hate me?" she asked at the gate.

  "I don't hate you, Lettie. You use an ugly word when you say 'hate,'" Ireplied.

  "There's one person I do hate," she said bitterly.

  "Has he given you cause?"

  "It's not a man; it's a woman. It's Marjie Whately," she burst out. "Ihate her."

  "Well, Lettie, I'm sorry, for I don't believe Marjie deserves yourhate."

  "Of course, you'd say so. But never mind. Marjie's not going to have myhate alone. You'll feel like I do yet, when her mother forces her awayfrom you. Marjie's just a putty ball in her mother's hands, and hermother is crazy about Amos Judson. Oh, I've said too much," sheexclaimed.

  "You have, Lettie; but stop saying any more." I spoke sternly."Good-night."

  She did not return my greeting, and I heard her slam the door behindher.

  That night, late as it was, I wrote a long letter to Marjie. I had nopangs of jealousy, and I felt that she knew me too well to doubt myfaith, and yet I wanted just once more to assure her. When I hadfinished, I went out softly and took my way down to "Rockport." It wasone of those glorious midsummer moonlit nights that have in theirsubdued splendor something more regal than the most gorgeous midday. Iw
as thankful afterwards for the perfect beauty of that peaceful night,with never a hint of the encroaching shadows, the deep gloom of sorrowcreeping toward me and my loved one. The town was sleeping quietly. TheNeosho was "chattering over stony ways," and whispering its midnightmelody. The wooded bottoms were black and glistening, and all theprairies were a gleaming, silvery sea of glory. The peace of God was onthe world, the broad benediction of serenity and love. Oh, many apicture have I in my memory's treasure house, that imperishable artgallery of the soul. And among them all, this one last happy night withits setting of Nature's grand handiwork stands clear evermore.

  I had put my letter safe in its place, deep where nobody but Marjiewould find it. I knew that if even the slightest doubt troubled her thisletter would lift it clean away. I told her of Rachel Melrose and of myfear of her designing nature, a fear that grew, as I reflected on heracts and words. I did not believe the young lady cared for me. It was aselfish wish to take what belonged to somebody else. I assured my littlegirl that only as a gentleman should be courteous, had been my courtesyto Rachel. And then for the first time, I told Marjie of her father'sdying message. I had wanted her to love me for myself. I did not wantany sense of duty to her father's wishes to sway her. I knew now thatshe did love me. And I closed the affectionate missive with the words:

  "To my father and Aunt Candace you are very dear. Your mother has always been kind to me. I believe she likes me. But most of all, Marjie, your father, who lies wrapped in the folds of that Springvale flag, who gave his life to make safe and happy the land we love and the home we hope to build, your father, sent us his blessing. When the roar of cannon was changing for him to the chant of seraphim, and the glare of the battle field was becoming 'a sea of glass mingled with fire' that burst in splendor over the jewelled walls and battlements of the New Jerusalem, even in that moment, his last thought was of us two. 'I hope they will love each other,' he said to my father. 'If they do, give them my blessing.' And then the night shut down for him. But in the eternal day where he waits our coming and loves us, Marjie, if he knows of what we do here, he is blessing our love.

  "Good-night, my dear, dear girl, my wife that is to be, and know now and always there is for me only one love. In sunny ways or shadow-checkered paths, whatever may come, I cannot think other than as I do now. You are life of my life. And so again, good-night."

  I had climbed to the rock above the crevice and was standing still asthe night about me for the moment when a grip like steel suddenly closedon my neck and an arm like the tentacle of a devilfish slid round mywaist. Then the swift adroitness of knee and shoulder bent me backwardalmost off my feet. I gave a great wrench, and with a power equal to myassailant, struggled with him. It was some moments before I caught sightof his face. It was Jean Pahusca. I think my strength grew fourfoldwith that glimpse. It was the first time in our lives that we hadmatched muscle. He must have been the stronger of the two, butdiscipline and temperate habits had given me endurance and judgment. Itwas a life-and-death strife between us. He tried to drag me to the edgeof the rock. I strove to get him through the bushes into the street. Atlength I gained the mastery and with my hand on his throat and my kneeon his chest I held him fast.

  "You miserable devil!" I muttered, "you have the wrong man. You think meweak as O'mie, whose body you could bind. I have a mind to choke youhere, you murderer. I could do it and rid the world of you, now." Hestruggled and I gave him air. There was something princely about himeven as he lay in my power. And, fiend as he was, he never lost thespirit of a master. To me also, brute violence was repulsive now thatthe advantage was all mine.

  "You deserve to die. Heaven is saving you for a fate you may well dread.You would be in jail in ten minutes if you ever showed your face here inthe daylight, and hanged by the first jury whose verdict could be given.I could save all that trouble now in a minute, but I don't want to be amurderer like you. For the sake of my own hands and for the sake of theman whose son I believe you to be, I'll spare your life to-night on onecondition!"

  I loosed my hold and stepped away from him. He rose with an effort, buthe could not stand at first.

  "Leave this country to-night, and never show your face here again. Thereare friends of O'mie's sworn to shoot you on sight. Go now to your owntribe and do it quickly."

  Slowly, like a promise made before high heaven, he answered me.

  "I will go, but I shall see you there. When we meet again, my hand willhave you by the throat. And--I don't care whose son you are."

  He slid down the cliff-side like a lizard, and was gone. I turned andstumbled through the bushes full into Lettie Conlow crouching amongthem.

  "Lettie, Lettie," I cried, "go home."

  "I won't unless you will come with me," she answered coaxingly.

  "I have taken you home once to-night," I said. "Now you may go alone orstay here as you choose," and I left her.

  "You'll live to see the day you'll wish you hadn't said that," I heardher mutter threateningly behind me.

  A gray mist had crept over the low-hanging moon. The world, so gloriousin its softened radiance half an hour ago, was dull and cheerless now.And with a strange heartache and sense of impending evil I sought myhome.

  The next day was a busy one in the office. My father was deep in thetangle of a legal case and more than usually grave. Early in theafternoon, Cam Gentry had come into the courthouse, and the two had along conference. Toward evening he called me into his private office.

  "Phil, this land case is troubling me. I believe the papers we want arein that old cabin. Could you go out again to-morrow?" He smiled now. "Goand make a careful search of the premises. If there are any boxes, openthem. I will give you an order from Sheriff Karr. And Phil, I believe Iwouldn't take Marjie this time. I want to have a talk with herto-morrow, anyhow. You can't monopolize all her time. I saw Mrs. Whatelyjust now and made an appointment with her for Marjie."

  When he spoke again, his words startled me.

  "Phil, when did you see Jean Pahusca last?"

  "Last night, no, this morning, about one o'clock," I answeredconfusedly.

  My father swung around in his chair and stared at me. Then his face grewstern, and I knew my safety lay in the whole truth. I learned that whenI was a boy.

  "Where was he?" The firing had begun.

  "On the point of rock by the bushes on Cliff Street."

  "What were you doing there?"

  "Looking at the moonlight on the river."

  "Did you see him first?"

  "No, or he would not have seen me."

  "Phil, save my time now. It's a matter of great importance to mybusiness. Also, it is serious with you. Begin at the party. Whose escortwere you?"

  "Lettie Conlow's."

  My father looked me straight in the eyes. I returned his gaze steadily.

  "Go on. Tell me everything." He spoke crisply.

  "I was late to the party. Tillhurst asked Marjie for her company just asI went in. Judson was going her way, and she chose the lesser oftwo--pleasures, we'll say. Just before the party broke up, Judson wascalled out. He had asked Lettie for her company, and he shoved her overto my tender mercies."

  "And you went strolling up on Cliff Street in the moonlight with hertill after midnight. Is that fair to Marjie?" I had never heard hisvoice sound so like resonant iron before.

  "I, strolling? I covered the seven blocks from Anderson's to Conlow's inseven minutes, and stood at the gate long enough to let the young ladythrough, and to pinch my thumb in the blamed old latch, I was in such ahurry; and then I made for the Baronets' roost."

  "But why didn't you stay there?" he asked.

  I blushed for a certainty now. My actions seemed so like a brain-sickfool's.

  "Now, Phil," my father said more kindly, "you remember I told you whenyou came to let me know you were twenty-one, that you must not get tooold to make a confidant of me. It is your only safe course now."

 
"Father, am I a fool, or is it in the Baronet blood to love deeply andconstantly even unto death?"

  The strong man before me turned his face to the window.

  "Go on," he said.

  "I had been away nearly a week. I sat up and wrote a long letter toMarjie. It would stand as clean evidence in court. I'm not ashamed ofwhat I put on paper, although it is my own business. Then I went out toa certain place under the cliff where Marjie and I used to hide ourvalentines and put little notes for each other years ago."

  "The post-office is safer, Phil."

  "Not with Tell Mapleson as postmaster."

  He assented, and I went on. "I had come to the top again and was lookingat the beauty of the night, when somebody caught me by the throat. Itwas Jean Pahusca."

  Briefly then I related what had taken place.

  "And after that?" queried my questioner.

  "I ran into Lettie Conlow. She may have been there all the time. I donot know, but I felt no obligation to take care of a girl who will nottake care of herself. It was rude, I know, and against my creed, butthat's the whole truth. I may be a certain kind of a fool about a girl Iknow. But I'm not the kind of gay fool that goes out after divers andstrange women. Bill Mead told me this morning that he and Bud Andersonpassed Lettie somewhere out west alone after one o'clock. He was in ahurry, but he stopped her and asked her why she should be out alone. Ithink Bud went home with her. None of the boys want harm to come to her,but she grows less pleasant every day. Bill would have gone home withher, but he was hurrying out to Red Range. Dave's girl died out therelast night. Poor Dave!"

  "Poor Dave!" my father echoed, and we sat in silence with our sympathygoing out to the fine young man whose day was full of sorrow.

  "Well," my father said, "to come back to our work now. There are someugly stories going that I have yet to get hold of. Cam Gentry is helpingme toward it all he can. This land case will never come to court ifMapleson can possibly secure the land in any other way. He'd like toruin us and pay off that old grudge against you for your part inbreaking up the plot against Springvale back in '63 and the suspicion itcast on him. Do you see?"

  I was beginning to see a little.

  "Now, you go out to the stone cabin to-morrow afternoon and make athorough search for any papers or other evidence hidden there. The manwho owned that land was a degenerate son of a noble house. There aresome missing links in the evidence that our claim is incontestable. Theother claimant to the land is entirely under Tell Mapleson's control.That's the way it shapes up to me. Meanwhile if it gets into court, twoor more lines are ready to tighten about you. Keep yourself in straightpaths and you are sure at last to win. I have no fear for you, Phil, butbe a man every minute."

  I understood him. As I left the courthouse, I met O'mie. There was astrange, pathetic look in his eyes. He linked his arm in mine, and wesauntered out under the oak trees of the courthouse grounds.

  "Phil, do ye remimber that May mornin' when ye broke through the vinesav the Hermit's Cave? I know now how the pityin' face av the Christlooked to the man who had been blind. I know how the touch av his handsfelt to them as had been lepers. They was made free and safe. Wake as Iwas that sorry mornin' I had one thought before me brain wint dark, thethought that I might some day help you aven a little. I felt that way inme wakeness thin. To-day in me strength I feel it a hundred times more.Ye may not nade me, but whin ye do, I'm here. Whin I was a poor lostorphan boy, worth nothin' to nobody, you risked life an' limb to drag meback from the agony av a death by inches. And now, while I'm only arid-headed Irishman, I can do a dale more thinkin' and I know a blamedlot more 'n this blessed little burg iver drames of. They ain't nobloodhound on your track, but a ugly octopus of a devilfish is gittin'its arms out after you. They's several av 'em. Don't forgit, Phil; Iknow I'd die for your sake."

  "O'mie, I believe you, but don't be uneasy about me. You know me as wellas anybody in this town. What have I to fear?"

  "Begorra, there was niver a purer-hearted boy than you iver walked outof a fun-lovin', rollickin' boyhood into a clane, honest manhood. Youcan't be touched."

  Just then the evening stage swung by and swept up the hill.

  "Look at the ould man, now, would ye? Phil, he's makin' fur Bar'net's.Bet some av your rich kin's comin' from the East, bringing you theirout-av-style clothes, an' a few good little books and Sunday-schooltracts to improve ye."

  There was only one passenger in the stage, a woman whose face I couldnot see.

  That evening O'mie went to Judson at closing time.

  "Mr. Judson, I want a lave of absence fur a week or tin days," he said.

  "What for?" Judson was the kind of man who could never be pleasant tohis employees, for fear of losing his authority over them.

  "I want to go out av town on business," O'mie replied.

  "Whose business?" snapped Judson.

  "Me own," responded O'mie calmly.

  "I can't have it. That's it. I just can't have my clerks and underlingsrunning around over the country taking my time."

  "Then I'll lave your time here whin I go," O'mie spoke coolly. He hadalways been respectful toward his employer, but he had no servile fearof him.

  "I just can't allow it," Judson went on. "I need you here." O'mie wasthe life of the business, the best asset in the store. "It may be aslack time, but I can't have it; that's it, I just can't put up with it.Besides," he simpered a little, in spite of himself, "besides, I'mlikely to be off a few days myself, just any time, I can get ready for astep I have in mind, an important step, just any minute, but it'sdifferent with some others, and we have to regard some others, you know;have to let some others have their way once in a while. We'll considerit settled now. You are to stay right here."

  "Ye'll consider it settled that I'm nadin' a tin days' vacation rightaway, an' must have it."

  "I can't do it, O'Meara; that's it. I would not give you your placeagain, and I won't pay you a cent of this quarter's salary."

  Judson's foolish temper was always his undoing.

  "You say you won't?" O'mie asked with a smile.

  "No, I won't. Hereafter you may beg your way or starve!" Judson fairlyshouted.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Amos Judson, but I'm not to thim straits yit. Not yit.I've a little bank account an' a good name at Cris Mead's bank. Most asgood as yours."

  The shot went home. Judson had but recently failed to get the bank'sbacking in a business dealing he had hoped to carry through on loans,and it had cut his vanity deeply.

  "Good-bye, Amos, I'll be back, but not any sooner than ye nade me," andhe was gone.

  The next day Dever the stage driver told us O'mie was going up toWyandotte on business.

  "Whose business?" I asked. "He doesn't know a soul in Wyandotte, exceptTell and Jim, who were working up there the last I knew. Tell may be inFort Scott now. Whose business was it?"

  "That's what I asked him," Dever answered with a grin, "and he said, hisown."

  Whatever it was, O'mie was back again before the end of the week. But heidled about for the full ten days, until Judson grew frantic. The storecould not be managed without him, and it was gratifying to O'mie'smischievous spirit to be solicited with pledge and courtesy to take hisplace again.

  After O'mie had left me in the courthouse yard, the evening after theparty, I stopped on my way home to see Marjie a moment. She had gonewith the Meads out to Red Range, her mother said, and might not be backtill late, possibly not till to-morrow. Judson was sitting in the roomwhen I came to the door. I had no especial reason to think Mrs. Whatelywas confused by my coming. She was always kind to everybody. But somehowthe gray shadows of the clouded moon of the night before were chillingme still, and I was bitterly disappointed at missing my loved one's facein her home. It seemed ages since I had had her to myself; not since thenight before my trip to Topeka. I stopped long enough to visit the"Rockport" letter-box for the answer to my letter I knew she would leavebefore she went out of town. There was no letter there. My heart grewheavy with a weight that
was not to lift again for many a long day. Upon the street I met Dr. Hemingway. His kind eyes seemed to penetrate tomy very soul.

  "Good-evening, Philip," he said pleasantly, grasping my hand with a firmpressure. "Your face isn't often clouded."

  I tried to look cheerful. "Oh, it's just the weather and some loss ofsleep. Kansas Augusts are pretty trying."

  "They should not be to a young man," he replied. "All weathers suit usif we are at peace within. That's where the storm really begins."

  "Maybe so," I said. "But I'm all right, inside and out."

  "You look it, Philip." He took my hand affectionately. "You are the veryimage of clean, strong manhood. Let not your heart be troubled."

  I returned his hand-clasp and went my way. However much courage it maytake to push forward to victory or death on the battle field, not theleast of heroism does it sometimes require to walk bravely toward thedeepening gloom of an impending ill. I have followed both paths and Iknow what each one demands.

  At our doorway, waiting to welcome me, stood Rachel Melrose, smiling,sure, and effusively demonstrative in her friendship. She must havefollowed me on the next stage out of Topeka. Behind her stood CandaceBaronet, the only woman I have ever known who never in all my lifedoubted me nor misunderstood me. Somehow the sunset was colorless to methat night, and all the rippling waves of wide West Prairie were shornof their glory.