CHAPTER V
The next morning there were only faint traces of the excitement of theday before. Men began to cross Main street from one side to the other,at first with cautious, apprehensive glances that swept the hostileterritory and penetrated open doors and windows, but, as the day worequietly on, with increasing confidence and unconcern. At noon ColonelWhittaker and Pierre Delarue walked over to the Palmleaf saloon, andwhile they clinked the ice in their mint juleps, good-natured andsmiling, they leaned on the bar and chatted with the two or threeDemocrats who were in the room. An hour or so later, Judge Harlinstrolled across to the White Horse saloon and called for a whiskystraight. Then all Las Plumas knew that the war was over and wentabout its usual affairs as amiably as if the day before had neverbeen.
At the breakfast table Pierre Delarue told his daughter about themass-meeting, its balked determination to lynch Emerson Mead, andMead's subsequent arrest.
"But, Father, how could they be so sure that Mr. Mead killed him? Didthey have any evidence?"
"Ah," he replied, shrugging his shoulders protestingly, "you womennever understand such things! Because Mead is a handsome young man andlooks good-natured, you think he can't possibly be a murderer. But itis well known that he had killed more than one man before he murderedpoor Whittaker, and he is notorious as one of the worst cattle thievesin the southwest."
"Father! These are dreadful things! Do you know them to be true?"
She looked across the table at him with horror in her face and eyes.Delarue considered her indulgently.
"Everybody knows them to be true. There is plenty of proof."
"Then why hasn't he been arrested and tried and--punished?"
"That is what many are saying now--why has he not been punished longbefore this? People have been lenient with him for a long time, but hehas at last reached the end of his career. They are now determinedthat a stop shall be put to his crimes and that he shall suffer thepunishment he has so long deserved."
Marguerite was accustomed to having the remnants of her father'sdown-town speeches served up at home, and her cooler judgment hadlearned not to put much dependence upon them. She gave a perfunctoryassent and made another effort to reach facts.
"Yes, Father, it is certainly very dreadful that such things shouldbe allowed to go unpunished. But did any one see him stealing theFillmore Company's cattle, and do they really know that he killed Mr.Whittaker?"
"The proof is as clear as any unprejudiced person need want. WillWhittaker and some of his men caught Mead in the very act of drivinginto his own herd a steer plainly marked with their brand. Theystopped him, and he foolishly tried to crawl out of his predicamentby accusing them of driving the branded steer into his herd. A mostabsurd story! They had a quarrel, and Mead threatened to killWhittaker. Immediately after that Will disappeared and has not beenseen since. Evidently, he has been killed, and there is no one exceptMead, who had threatened to kill him, who could possibly have had anymotive for murdering him. The evidence may be circumstantial, but itis conclusive. Besides, if Mead had not known that the case againsthim was complete, he would not have given himself up last night as hedid. And if he had not done so he would certainly have been lynched.The people were thoroughly aroused, and it was impossible to controltheir indignation."
A little shiver ran through Marguerite's frame and she turned away,looking much disturbed. Her father patted her head indulgently."There, there, my dear child, these things do not concern you in theleast. Don't trouble yourself about public affairs."
He hurried down-town and she sat alone, a little frown on herforehead and her mouth drooping, as she thought: "I can not believe heis a thief and a murderer, without more evidence than this. Andstill--how can it be that so many men are so sure of his guiltthat--and he is in jail now--Oh, a thief and a murderer!"
She hurried from the room calling, "Paul! Paul!" The boy ran in fromthe veranda and she caught him in her arms and pressed him to herbosom, kissing him over and over again and calling him her darling,her treasure, and all the dear names with which womankind voices itslove, and at last, sobbing, buried her face in his flaxen curls. Thechild put his arms about her head and patted her cheek and said, "Poorsister! Poor Daisy!" until, frightened by her emotion, he too began tocry. The necessity of soothing and comforting him gave her thatdistraction which has been woman's chief comfort since woman first hadtrouble. But her face was still sad and anxious when Wellesly appearedon the veranda in the late afternoon.
Albert Wellesly, who lived in Denver, disliked very much theoccasional visits to Las Plumas which his financial interests madenecessary. He was still on the under side of thirty, but his businessassociates declared that he possessed a shrewdness and a capacity thatwould have done credit to a man of twice his years. Possibly peoplenot infatuated with commercial success might have said that hisability was nothing more than an unscrupulous determination to grabeverything in sight. Whatever it was, it had made him remarkablysuccessful. The saying was common among those who knew him thateverything he touched turned to gold. They also prophesied that intwenty years he would be one of the financial giants of the country.Las Plumas bored him to desperation, but on this occasion he thoughtit would be the part of wisdom to stay longer than had been his firstintention. As long as the town was feverish with excitement he foundit endurable. But when the dullness of peace settled over the streetsagain he walked about listlessly, wondering how he could manage to getthrough the day. At last he thought of Miss Delarue.
"That's so!" he inwardly exclaimed. "I can go and find out if theEnglish girl is in love with this handsome big fellow who has beenstealing my cattle. I suppose it will be necessary for me to drink acup of tea, but she will amuse me for an hour."
Marguerite Delarue's friends always thought of her and spoke of her asEnglish, notwithstanding her French paternity. For her appearance andher temperament she had inherited from her English mother, who hadgiven her also English training. Miss Delarue laughed at the forlorndejection of Wellesly's face and figure.
"My face is a jovial mask," he gravely told her. "You should see themelancholy gloom that shrouds my mind."
"I hope nothing has happened," she exclaimed, with sudden alarm.
"That's just the trouble, Miss Delarue. It's because nothing doeshappen here, and I have to endure the aching void, that I am filledwith such melancholy."
"Surely there was enough excitement yesterday and last night."
"Ah, yesterday! That was something like! But it was yesterday, andto-day the deadly dullness is enough to turn the blood in one's veinsto mud!"
"Then everything is quiet down-town? There is no more danger oftrouble?"
"There is no danger of anything, except that every blessed person inthe place may lie down in his tracks and fall into a hundred years'sleep. I assure you, Miss Delarue, the town is as peaceful as theplain out yonder, and birds in their little nests are not nearly soquiet as are the valiant warriors of Las Plumas."
"Oh, that is good! I am very glad, on my father's account. He is soaggressive in his opinions that whenever there is any excitement ofthis kind I am anxious about him until the trouble is over." Shehesitated a moment, her lips trembling on the verge of further speech,and he waited for her to go on. "Mr. Wellesly," she said, a note ofuncertainty sounding in her voice, "you are not prejudiced by thepolitical feeling which colors people's opinions here. I wish youwould tell me what you think about this matter. Do you believe Mr.Mead has killed Will Whittaker?"
Wellesly noted her earnest expression and the intentness of her voiceand pose, and he decided at once that this was not mere curiosity. Hepaused a moment, looking thoughtful. His keen, brilliant eyes werebent on her face.
"It's a hard question you've asked me, Miss Delarue. One does not liketo decide against a man in such serious accusations unless he can besure. The evidence against Emerson Mead, in this murder case, is allcircumstantial, it is true, but, at least to me, it is stronglyconvincing." His eyes were almost closed, only a strip of bri
lliantgray light showing between their lids, but he was watching hernarrowly. "We know that he has been stealing cattle from us. We havefound many bearing our brand among his herds. Our men have even caughthim driving them into his own bands. In fact, there is no doubt aboutthis matter. Emerson Mead is a cattle thief of the wiliest sort." Hepaused a moment, noting the horrified expression on her downcast face.But she did not speak, and he went on:
"About this murder, if murder it is, of course nobody knows anythingwith certainty. But in my judgment there is only one tenable theory ofWill Whittaker's disappearance, and that is, that he was murdered andhis body hidden. Mead is the only enemy he was known to have, and Meadhad threatened to kill him. The evidence, while, of course, notconclusive, is shockingly bad for Mead."
She looked away, toward the Hermosa mountains looming sharp and jaggedin the fierce afternoon sunlight, and he saw her lips tremble. Then,as if her will caught and held them, the movements ceased with alittle inrush of breath. He lowered his voice and made it very kindlyand sympathetic as he leaned toward her and went on:
"For your sake, I am very sorry for all this if Mr. Mead is a friendof yours. He is a very taking young fellow, with his handsome face andgood-natured smile. But, also for your sake," and his voice went downalmost to a murmur, "I hope he is not a friend."
There were tears in her eyes and distress, perplexity and pain in herface as she turned impulsively toward him, as if grasping at hissympathy.
"I have it!" he thought. "She is in love with Mead! Now we'll find outhow far it has gone. Papa Frenchy couldn't have known of it."
"I can not say he is a friend," she said slowly. "He is scarcely anacquaintance. I have not met him, I think, more than half a dozentimes, and only a few minutes each time. But he has always been sokind to my little brother that I find it hard to believe a man sogentle and thoughtful with a child could be so--criminal."
"Ah! Love at first sight, probably not reciprocated!" was Wellesly'smental comment. "I guess it is a case in which it would be proper tooffer consolation, and watch the effect." Gradually he led theconversation away from this painful topic and talked with her aboutother places in which she had lived. Then they drifted to morepersonal matters, to theories upon life and duty, and he spoke withthe warmest admiration of what he called the ideal principles by whichshe guided her life and declared that they would be impossible to aman, unless he had the good fortune to be stimulated and helped bysome noble woman who realized them in her own life. It was admirationof the most delicate, impersonal sort, seemingly directed not to thegirl herself, but to the girl she had wished and tried to be. It setMarguerite Delarue's heart a-flutter with pleasure. No one had evergiven her such open and such delicate admiration, and she was toounsophisticated to conceal her delight. He smiled to himself at herevident pleasure in his words, and, with much the same feeling withwhich he might have cuddled a purring, affectionate kitten, he went astep farther and made love--a very shadowy, intangible sort of love,in a very indefinite sort of way.
Albert Wellesly usually made love to whatever woman happened to be athand, if he had nothing else to do, or if he thought it would advancehis interests. With men he was keen and forceful, studying themshrewdly, seeing quickly their weak points, turning these to his ownadvantage, and helping himself over their heads by every means hecould grasp. In his dealings and relations with women he aimed at thesame masterful result, but while with men this might be attained inmany ways, with women he held there was but one way, and that was tomake love to them.
Marguerite bade him good-by with the same deep pain still in herheart, but pleased in spite of herself. His words had been ladenheavily with the honey of admiration of a sort that to her seriousnature was most pleasing, while about them had hovered the faintest,most elusive aroma of love. In her thought, she went over their longconversation again and again, and dwelt on all that he had said withconstant delight. For to women admiration is always pleasing, eventhough they may know it to be insincere. To young women it is a winethat makes them feel themselves rulers of the earth, and to theirelders it is a cordial which makes them forget their years.
Marguerite Delarue had had little experience with either love oradmiration. Her heart had been virgin ground when her face had firstflushed under the look in Emerson Mead's brown eyes. And the firstwords of love to fall upon her ears had been the uncertain ones ofWellesly that afternoon. She conned them over to herself, saying thatof course they meant only that he was a high-minded gentleman whoadmired high ideals. She repeated all that he had said on the subjectof Mead's guilt.
"He seemed fair and unprejudiced," she thought, "but I can not believeit without certain proof. I know more about Mr. Mead than some ofthose who think they know so much, for I have seen him with my littleBye-Bye, and until they can prove what they say I shall believe himjust as good as he seems to be."
So she locked up in her heart her belief in Mead's innocence, sayingnothing about the matter to any one, till after a little that beliefcame to be like a secret treasure, hidden away from all other eyes,but in her own thought held most dear.