CHAPTER XLI
SALLY WEEPS
All that day, in a silence broken only by murmurs and side glances,Anthony and Sally Fortune moved about the old house from window towindow, and from crack to crack, keeping a steady eye on the commandingrocks above. In one of those murmurs they made their resolution. Whennight came they would rush the rocks, storm them from the front, andtake their chance with what might follow. But the night promised to givebut little shelter to their stalking.
For in the late afternoon a broad moon was already climbing up from theeast; the sky was cloudless; there was a threat of keen, revealingmoonshine for the night. Only desperation could make them attempt tostorm the rock, but by the next morning, at the latest, reinforcementswere sure to come, and then their fight would be utterly hopeless.
So when the light of the sun mellowed, grew yellow and slant, and theshadows sloped from tree to tree, the two became more silent still,drawn and pale of face, waiting. Anthony at a window, Sally at a crackwhich made an excellent loophole, they remained moveless.
It was she who noted a niche which might serve as a loophole for one ofthe posse, and she fired at it, aiming low. The clang of the bulletagainst rock echoes clearly back to her, like the soft chime of a sheepbell from the peaceful distance. Then, as if in answer to her shot,around the edge of the rocks appeared a moving rag of white which grewinto William Drew, bearing above his head the white sign of the truce.
In her astonishment she looked to Bard. He was quivering all over like ahound held on a tight leash, with the game in sight, hungry to beslipped upon it. The edge of his tongue passed across his colourlesslips. He was like a man who long has ridden the white-hot desert and isnow about to drink. There was the same wild gleam in his eyes; his handshook with nervous eagerness as he shifted and balanced his revolver.Listening, in her awe, she heard the sound of his increasing panting; asound like the breath of a running man approaching her swiftly.
She slipped to his side.
"Anthony!"
He did not answer; his gun steadied; the barrel began to incline down;his left eye was squinting. She dropped to her knees and seized hiswrist.
"Anthony, what are you going to do?"
"It's Drew!" he whispered, and she did not recognize his voice. "It'sthe grey man I've waited for. It's he!"
In such a tone a dying man might speak of his hope of heaven--seeing itunroll before him in his delirium.
"But he's carrying the flag of truce, Anthony. You see that?"
"I see nothing except his face. It blots out the rest of the world. I'llplant my shot there--there in the middle of those lips."
"Anthony, that's William Drew, the squarest man on the range."
"Sally Fortune, that's William Drew, who murdered my father!"
"Ah!" she said, with sharply indrawn breath. "It isn't possible!"
"I saw the shot fired."
"But not this way, Anthony; not from behind a wall!"
His emotion changed him, made him almost a stranger to her. He wasshaking and palsied with eagerness.
"I could do nothing as bad as the crime he has done. For twenty yearsthe dread of his coming haunted my father, broke him, aged himprematurely. Every day he went to a secret room and cared for hisrevolver--this gun here in my hand, you see? He and I--we were more thanfather and son--we were pals, Sally. And then this devil called myfather out into the night and shot him. Damn him!"
"You've got to listen to me, Anthony--"
"I'll listen to nothing, for there he is and--"
She said with a sharp, rising ring in her voice: "If you shoot at himwhile he carries that white flag I'll--I'll send a bullet through yourhead--that's straight! We got only one law in the mountains, and that'sthe law of honour. If you bust that, I'm done with you, Anthony."
"Take my gun--take it quickly, Sally, I can't trust myself; looking athim, I can see the place where the bullet should strike home."
He forced the butt of his revolver into her hands, rose, and stepped tothe door, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Tell me what he does."
"He's comin' straight toward us as if he didn't fear nothin'--greyWilliam Drew! He's not packin' a gun; he trusts us."
"The better way," answered Bard. "Bare hands--the better way!"
"He has killed men with those bare hands of his. I can see 'emclear--great, blunt-fingered hands, Anthony. He's coming around the sideof the house. I'll go into the front room."
She ran past Anthony and paused in the habitable room, spying through acrack in the wall. And Anthony stood with his eyes tightly closed, hishead bowed. The image of the leashed hound came more vividly to her whenshe glanced back at him.
"He's walkin' right up the path. There he stops."
"Where?"
"Right beside the old grave."
"Anthony!" called a deep voice. "Anthony, come out to me!"
He started, and then groaned and stopped himself.
"Is the sign of the truce still over his head, Sally?"
"Yes."
"I daren't go out to him--I'd jump at his throat."
She came beside him.
"It means something besides war. I can see it in his face. Pain--sorrow,Anthony, but not a wish for fightin'."
From the left side of his cartridge belt a stout-handled, long-bladedhunting-knife was suspended. He disengaged the belt and tossed it to thefloor. Still he paused.
"If I go, I'll break the truce, Sally."
"You won't; you're a man, Anthony; and remember that you're on therange, and the law of the range holds you."
"Anthony!" called the deep voice without.
He shuddered violently.
"What is it?"
"It sounds--like the voice of my father calling me! I must go!"
She clung to him.
"Not till you're calmer."
"My father died in my arms," he answered; "let me go."
He thrust her aside and strode out through the door.
On the farther side of the grave stood Drew, his grey head bare, andlooking past him Anthony saw the snow-clad tops of the Little Brother,grey also in the light of the evening. And the trees whose branchesinterwove above the grave--grey also with moss. The trees, the mountain,the old headstone, the man--they blended into a whole.
"Anthony!" said the man, "I have waited half my life for this!"
"And I," said Bard, "have waited a few weeks that seem longer than allmy life, for this!"
His own eager panting stopped him, but he stumbled on: "I have you herein reach at last, Drew, and I'm going to tear your heart out, as youtore the heart out of John Bard."
"Ah, Anthony," said the other, "my heart was torn out when you wereborn; it was torn out and buried here."
And to the wild eyes of Anthony it seemed as if the great body of Drew,so feared through the mountain-desert, was now enveloped with weakness,humbled by some incredible burden.
After that a mist obscured his eyes; he could not see more than anoutline of the great shape before him; his throat contracted as if ahand gripped him there, and an odd tingling came at the tips of hisfingers. He moved forward.
"It is more than I dreamed," he said hoarsely, as his foot plantedfirmly on the top of the grave, and he poised himself an instant beforeflinging himself on the grey giant. "It is more than I dreamed for--toface you--alone!"
And a solemn, even voice answered him, "We are not alone."
"Not alone, but the others are too far off to stop me."
"Not alone, Anthony, for your mother is here between us."
Like a fog under a wind, the mist swept from the eyes of Anthony; helooked out and saw that the face of the grey man was infinitely sad, andthere was a hungry tenderness that reached out, enveloped, weakened him.He glanced down, saw that his heel was on the mount of the grave; sawagain the headstone and the time-blurred inscription: "Here sleeps Joan,the wife of William Drew. She chose this place for rest."
A mortal weakness and trembling seized him. The w
ind puffed against hisface, and he went staggering back, his hand caught up to his eyes.
He closed his mind against the words which he had heard.
But the deep organ voice spoke again: "Oh, boy, your mother!"
In the stupor which came over him he saw two faces: the stern eyes ofJohn Bard, and the dark, mocking beauty of the face which had lookeddown to him in John Bard's secret room. He lowered his hand from hiseyes; he stared at William Drew, and it seemed to him that it was JohnBard he looked upon. Their names differed, but long pain had touchedthem with a common greyness. And it seemed to Anthony that it was only amoment ago that the key turned in the lock of John Bard's secret room,the hidden chamber which he kept like Bluebeard for himself, where hewent like Bluebeard to see his past; only an instant before he hadturned the key in that lock, the door opened, and this was the scenewhich met his eyes--the grave, the blurred tombstone, and the sternfigure beyond.
"Joan," he repeated; "your wife--my mother?"
He heard a sob, not of pain, but of happiness, and knew that the blueeyes of Sally Fortune looked out to him from the doorway of the house.
The low voice, hurried now, broke in on him.
"When I married Joan, John Bard fled from the range; he could not bearto look on our happiness. You see, I had won her by chance, and he hatedme for it. If you had ever seen her, Anthony, you would understand. Icrossed the mountains and came here and built this house, for yourmother was like a wild bird, Anthony, and I did not dare to let men nearher; then a son was born, and she died giving him birth. Afterward Ilived on here, close to the place which she had chosen herself for rest.And I was happy because the boy grew every day into a more perfectpicture of his dead mother.
"One day when he was almost three I rode off through the hills, and whenI came back the boy was gone. I rode with a posse everywhere, huntinghim; aye, Anthony, the trail which I started then I have kept at eversince, year after year, and here it ends where it began--at the grave ofJoan!
"Finally I came on news that a man much like John Bard in appearance hadbeen seen near my house that day. Then I knew it was Bard in fact. Hehad seen the image of the woman we both loved in the boy. He was allthat was left of her on earth. After these years I can read his heartclearly; I know why he took the boy.
"Then I left this place. I could not bear the sight of the grave; forshe slept in peace, and I lived in hell waiting for the return of myson.
"At last I went east; I was at Madison Square Garden and saw you ride.It was the face of Joan that looked back at me; and I knew that I wasclose to the end of the trail.
"The next night I called out John Bard. He had been in hell all thoseyears, like me, for he had waited for my coming. He begged me to lethim have you; said you loved him as a father; I only laughed. So wefought, and he fell; and then I saw you running over the lawn toward us.
"I remembered Joan, her pride and her fierceness, and I knew that if Iwaited a son would kill his father that night. So I turned and fledthrough the trees. Anthony, do you believe me; do you forgive me?"
The memory of the clumsy, hungered tenderness of John Bard swept aboutAnthony.
He cried: "How can I believe? My father has killed my father; what isleft?"
The solemn voice replied: "Anthony, my son!"
He saw the great, blunt-fingered hands which had killed men, which werefeared through the length and breadth of the mountain-desert, stretchedout to him.
"Anthony Drew!" said the voice.
His hand went out, feebly, by slow degrees, and was caught in a mightydouble clasp. Warmth flowed through him from that grasp, and a greatemotion troubled him, and a voice from deep to deep echoed withinhim--the call of blood to blood. He knew the truth, for the hate burnedout in him and left only an infinite sadness.
He said: "What of the man who loved me? Whom I love?"
"I have done penance for that death," answered William Drew, "and Ishall do more penance before I die. For I am only your father in name,but he is the father in your thoughts and in your love. Is it true?"
"It is true," said Anthony.
And the other, bitterly: "In his life he was as strong as I; in hisdeath he is still stronger. It is his victory; his shadow falls betweenus."
But Anthony answered: "Let us go together and bring his body and bury itat the left side of--my mother."
"Lad, it is the one thing we can do together, and after that?"
A plaintive sound came to the ear of Anthony, and he looked down to seeSally Fortune weeping at the grave of Joan. Better than both the men sheunderstood, perhaps. In the deep tenderness which swelled through him hecaught a sense of the drift of life through many generations of the pastand projecting into the future, men and women strong and fair and eachwith a high and passionate love.
The men died and the women changed, but the love persisted with the willto live. It came from a thousand springs, but it rolled in one river toone sea. The past stood there in the form of William Drew; he and Sallymade the present, and through his love of her sprang the hope of thefuture.
It was all very clear to him. The love of Bard and Drew for Joan Piottohad not died, but passed through the flame and the torment of the threeruined lives and returned again with gathering power as the force whichswept him and Sally Fortune out into that river and toward that far-offsea. The last mist was brushed from his eyes. He saw with a piercingvision the world, himself, life. He looked to William Drew and saw thathe was gazing on an old and broken man.
He said to the old man: "Father, she is wiser than us both."
And he pointed to Sally Fortune, still weeping softly on the grave ofJoan.
But William Drew had no eye for her; he was fallen into a deep muse overthe blurred inscription on the headstone. He did not even raise his headwhen Anthony touched Sally Fortune on the shoulder. She rose, and theystole back together toward the house. There, as they stood closetogether, Sally murmured: "It is cruel to leave him alone. He needs usnow, close to him."
His hand wandered slowly across her hair, and he said: "Sally, how closecan we ever be to him?"
"We can only watch and wait and try to understand," murmured SallyFortune.
They were so close to the door of the ruined house, now, that a taint ofburnt powder crept out to them, a small, keen odour, and with a suddendesire to protect her, he drew her close to him. There was no tensing ofher body when his arm went around her and he knew with a rush oftenderness how completely, how perfectly she accepted him. Over the handwhich held her he felt soft fingers settle to keep it in its place, andwhen he looked down he found that her face was raised, and the eyeswhich brooded on him were misty bright, like the eyes of a child whenjoy overflows in it, but awe keeps it quiet.
THE END
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