Claim Number One Part 31

His going left her nerveless and weak. She sat and watched him out of sight beyond the cottonwoods and willows, thinking what a terrible thing it was to ride out with the cold intention of killing a man. This man was irresponsible; the strength of his desire for revenge had overwhelmed his reason. The law would excuse him of murder, for in the dimness of his own mind there was no conception of crime.

But what excuse could there be for one who sat down in deliberation----

Base Jerry Boyle might be, ready to sacrifice unfeelingly the innocent for his own pleasure and gain, ready to strike at their dearest hopes, ready to trample under his feet the green gardens of their hearts'

desire; yet, who should sit in judgment on him, or seek a justification in his deeds to--to---- Even then she could not bring her thoughts to express it, although her wild heart had sung over it less than twenty-four hours before.

A s.h.i.+ver of sickness turned her cold. With quick, nervous fingers she unbuckled the belt which held her revolver and cartridges; she carried the weapon into the tent and flung it to the ground.

At dusk the sheep-herder returned, with the horse much blown.

"He had been there, but he's gone," he announced. "I followed him eastward along the stage-road, but lost his trail."

He dismounted and dropped the reins to the ground. Agnes set about to relieve the tired animal of the burden of the saddle, the sheep-herder offering no a.s.sistance. He stood with his head bent, an air of dejection and melancholy over him, a cloud upon his face. Presently he walked away, saying no more. She watched him as he went, moodily and unheeding of his way, until he pa.s.sed out of view around a thicket of tangled shrubs which grew upon the river-bank.

While her horse was relieving his weariness in contented sighs over his oats, Agnes made a fire and started her evening coffee. She had a feeling of cleanness in her conscience, and a lightness of heart which she knew never could have been her own to enjoy again if the crazed herder had come back with blood upon his hands.

There was no question about the feeling of loneliness that settled down upon her with aching intensity when she sat down to her meal, spread on a box, the lantern a yellow speck in the boundless night. A rod away its poor, futile glimmer against such mighty odds was understood, standing there with no encompa.s.sing walls to mark the boundary of its field. It was like the struggle of a man who stands alone in the vastness of life with no definite aim to circ.u.mscribe his endeavor, wasting his feeble illumination upon a little rod of earth.

We must have walls around us, both lanterns and men, rightly to fill the sphere of our designed usefulness; walls to restrain our wastrel forces; walls to bind our l.u.s.tful desires, our foolish ambitions, our outwinging flights. Yet, in its way, the lantern served n.o.bly, as many a man serves in the circle which binds his small adventures, and beyond which his fame can never pa.s.s.

From the door of her tent Agnes looked out upon the lantern, comparing herself with it, put down there as she was in that blank land, which was still in the night of its development. Over that place, which she had chosen to make a home and a refuge, her own weak flame would fall dimly, perhaps never able to light it all. Would it be worth the struggle, the heart-hunger for other places and things, the years of waiting, the toil and loneliness?

She went back to her supper, the cup which she had gone to fetch in her hand. The strength of night made her heart timid; the touch of food was dry and tasteless upon her lips. For the first time since coming to that country she felt the pain of discouragement. What could she do against such a great, rough thing? Would it ever be worth the labor it would cost?

Feeble as her light was against the night, it was enough to discover tears upon her cheeks as she sat there upon the ground. Her fair hair lay dark in the shadows, and light with that contrast which painters love, where it lifted in airy rise above her brow. And there were the pensive softness of her chin, the sweep of her round throat, the profile as sharp as a shadow against the mellow glow. Perhaps the lantern was content in its circ.u.mscribed endeavor against the night, when it could light to such good advantage so much loveliness.

"If I'd have put my hands over your eyes, who would you have named?"

asked a voice near her ear, a voice familiar, and fitted in that moment with old a.s.sociations.

"I'd have had no trouble in guessing, Jerry, for I was expecting you,"

she answered, scarcely turning her head, although his silent manner of approach had startled her.

"Agnes, I don't believe you've got any more nerves than an Indian," he said, dropping down beside her.

"If one wanted to make a facetious rejoinder, the opening is excellent,"

she said, fighting back her nervousness with a smile. "Will you have some supper?"

"I'd like it, if you don't mind."

She busied herself with the stove, but he peremptorily took away from her the office of feeding the fire, and watched her as she put bacon on to fry.

"Agnes, you ought to have been frying bacon for me these four years past--figuratively, I mean," he remarked, musingly.

"If you don't mind, we'll not go back to that," she said.

Boyle made no mention of the purpose of his visit. He made his supper with amba.s.sadorial avoidance of the subject which lay so uneasily on her mind. When he had finished, he drew out his tobacco-sack and rolled a cigarette, and, as it dangled from his lip by a shred of its wrapping, he turned to her.

"Well?" he asked.

She was standing near the lantern, removing the few utensils--the bacon had been served to him in the pan--from her outdoor table. When she answered him she turned away until her face was hidden in the shadow.

"I didn't carry your message to Dr. Slavens as you ordered, Jerry."

"I know it," said he. "What next?"

"I guess it's 'up to you,' as you put it. I'm not going to try to save myself at the expense of any of my friends."

Boyle got up. He took a little turn away from the box whereon the lantern stood, as if struggling to maintain the fair front he had worn when he appeared. After a little he turned and faced her, walking back slowly until only the length of the little stove was between them.

"Have you considered your own danger?" he asked.

"It wouldn't help you a great deal here, among these rough, fair-minded people, to take an advantage like that of a woman, especially when her transgression is merely technical and not intentional," she rejoined.

"I wouldn't have to appear in it," he a.s.sured her.

"Well, set the United States marshal after me as soon as you want to; I'll be here," she said, speaking with the even tone of resignation which one commands when the mind has arrived at a determined stand to face the last and worst.

"Agnes, I told you yesterday that I was all over the old feeling that I had for you."

Boyle leaned forward as he spoke, his voice earnest and low.

"But that was a bluff. I'm just as big a fool as I ever was about it. If you want to walk over me, go ahead; if you want to--oh, rats! But I'll tell you; if you'll come away with me I'll drop all of this. I'll leave that tin-horn doctor where he is, and let him make what he can out of his claim."

"I couldn't marry you, Jerry; it's impossible to think of that," she told him gently.

"Oh, well, that's a formality," he returned, far more in his voice than his words. "I'll say to you----"

"You've said too much!" she stopped him, feeling her cheeks burn under the outrage which he had offered to her chaste heart. "There's no room for any more words between you and me--never! Go now--say no more!"

She walked across the bright ring of light toward the tent, making a little detour around him, as if afraid that his violent words might be followed by violent deeds.

Boyle turned where he stood, following her with his eyes. The light of the lantern struck him strongly up to the waist, leaving his head and shoulders in the gloom above its glare. His hands were in the pockets of his trousers, his shoulders drooping forward in that horseback stoop which years in the saddle had fastened on him.

Agnes had reached the tent, where she stood with her hand on the flap, turning a hasty look behind her, when a shot out of the dark from the direction of the river-bank struck her ears with a suddenness and a portent which seemed to carry the pain of death. She was facing that way; she saw the flash of it; she saw Jerry Boyle leap with lithe agility, as if springing from the scourge of flames, and sling his pistol from the hostler under his coat.

In his movement there was an admirable quickness, rising almost to the dignity of beauty in the rapidity with which he adjusted himself to meet this sudden exigency. In half the beat of a heart, it seemed, he had fired. Out of the dark came another leap of flame, another report. Boyle walked directly toward the point from which it came, firing as he went.

No answer came after his second shot.

Agnes pressed her hand over her eyes to shut out the sight, fearing to see him fall, her heart rising up to accuse her. She had forgotten to warn him! She had forgotten!

Boyle's voice roused her. There was a dry harshness in it, a hoa.r.s.eness as of one who has gone long without water on the lips.

"Bring that lantern here!" he commanded.

She did not stand to debate it, but took up the light and hurried to the place where he stood. A man lay at his feet, his long hair tossed in disorder, his long coat spread out like a black blotch upon the ground.

Boyle took the lantern and bent over the victim of his steady arm, growled in his throat, and bent lower. The man's face was partly hidden by the rank gra.s.s in which he lay. Boyle turned it up to the light with his foot and straightened his back with a grunt of disdain.