Langford of the Three Bars Part 15

The flats southeast of town became the camping grounds for those unable to find quarters at the hotel, and who lived too far out to make the nightly ride home and back in the morning. They were tempted by the unusually mild weather. These were mostly Indians and half-breeds, but with a goodly sprinkling of cowboys of the rougher order. Camp-fires spotted the plain, burning redly at night. There was plenty of drift-wood to be had for the hauling. Blanketed Indians squatted and smoked around their fires-a revival of an older and better day for them.

Sometimes they stalked majestically through the one street of the town.

The judicial party was safely housed in the hotel, with the best service it was possible for the management to give in this busy season of congested patronage. It was impossible to accommodate the crowds. Even the office was jammed with cots at night. Mary Williston had come in from White's to be with Louise. She was physically strong again, but ever strangely quiet, always sombre-eyed.

"What shall I do, Louise?" she asked, one night. They were sitting in darkness. From their east window they could see the gleaming red splotches that were fires on the flat.

"What do you mean, Mary?" asked Louise, dreamily. She was thinking how much sterner Gordon grew every day. He still had a smile for his friends, but he always smiled under defeat. That is what hurt so. She had noticed that very evening at supper how gray his hair was getting at the temples. He had looked lonely and sad. Was it then all so hopeless?

"I mean, to make a living for myself," Mary answered, earnestly. "There is no one in the world belonging to me now. There were only father and I. What shall I do, Louise?"

"Mary, dear, dear Mary, what are you thinking of doing?"

"Anything," she answered, her proud reticence giving way before her need, "that will keep me from the charity of my friends. The frock I have on, plain as it is, is mine through the generosity of Paul Langford. The bread I eat he pays for. He-he lied to me, Louise. He told me the cowmen had made a purse for my present needs. They hadn't. It was all from him. I found out. Mrs. White is poor. She can't keep a great, strapping girl like me for nothing. I am such a hearty eater, and he has been paying her, Louise, for what I ate. Think of it! I thought I should die when I found it out. I made her promise not to take another cent from him-for me. So I have been working to make it up. I have washed and ironed and scrubbed and baked. I was man of affairs at the ranch while Mr. White went out with the gang for the Fall round-up. I have herded.

But one has to have things besides one's bread. The doctor was paid out of that make-believe purse, but it must all be made up to Paul Langford-every cent of it."

"Mr. Langford would be very much hurt if you should do that," began Louise, slowly. "It was because of him, you know, primarily, that-"

"He owes me nothing," interrupted Mary, sharply.

"Oh," said Louise, smiling in the dark.

"I believe I could teach school," went on Mary, with feverish haste, "if I could get a school to teach."

"I should think Mr. Gordon could help you to secure a place here," said Louise.

"I have not told Mr. Gordon my troubles," said Mary, gravely. "I should not dream of intruding with such petty affairs while his big fight is on-his glorious fight. He will avenge my father. Nothing matters but that. He has enough to bear-without a woman's trivial grievances."

"But he would be glad to take that little trouble for you if he knew,"

persisted Louise. She was feeling small and of little worth in the strength of Mary's sweeping independence. She was hauntingly sure that in like circ.u.mstances she would be weak enough to take her trouble to-a man like Gordon, for instance. It came to her, there in the dark, that maybe he loved Mary. She had no cause to wonder, if this were true. Mary was fine-beautiful, lovable, stanch and true and capable, and he had known her long before he knew there was such a creature in existence as the insignificant, old-maidenish, mouse-haired reporter from the East.

The air of the room suddenly became stifling. She threw open a window.

The soft, damp air of the cloudy, warm darkness floated in and caressed her hot cheeks. Away, away over yonder, beyond the twinkling camp-fires on the flat, across the river, away to the east, were her childhood's home and her kin. Here were the big, unthinking, overbearing cow country and-the man who loved Mary Williston, maybe.

It was getting late bedtime. Men were shuffling noisily through the hall on their way to their rooms. Sc.r.a.ps of conversation drifted in to the two girls.

"He's a fool to make the try without Williston."

"It takes some folks a mighty long time to learn their place in this here county."

"Well, I reckon he thinks the county kin afford to stand good for his fool play."

"He'll learn his mistake-when Jesse gets out."

"Naw! Not the ghost of a show!"

"He'd ought to be tarred and feathered and shot full o' holes, and s.h.i.+pped back to where he come from to show his kind how we deal with plumb idjits west o' the river."

"Well, he'll dance a different stunt 'gainst this is over."

"You bet! Jesse'll do his stunt next."

And then they heard the lazy doctor's voice drawling, "Mebby so, but let's wait and see, shall we?"

Men's minds were set uns.h.i.+ftingly on this coming trial. How Gordon would have to fight for a fair jury!

"I think it is as you said," said Mary, presently. "Mr. Langford feels he owes me-bread and clothes. He is anxious to pay off the debt so there will be nothing on his conscience. He owes me nothing, nothing, Louise, but he is a man and he thinks he can pay off any obligation he may feel."

"That is a harsh motive you ascribe to Mr. Langford," said Louise, closing the window and coming to sit affectionately at Mary's feet. "I don't think he means it in that way at all. I think it is a fine and delicate and manly thing he has done. He did not intend for you to know-or any one. And don't you think, Mary, that the idea of making up a purse should have come from some one else-just as he tried to make you believe? It was not done, so what was left for Mr. Langford to do? He had promised to see your father through. He was glad to do it. I think it was fine of him to do-what he did-the way he did it."

She had long thought the Boss dreamed dreams of Mary. She was more sure of it than ever to-night. And now if Gordon did, too-well, Mary was worth it. But she would be sorry for one of them some day. They were fine men-both of them.

"But I shall pay him back-every cent," replied Mary, firmly. "He owes me nothing, Louise, nothing, I tell you. I will not accept alms-of him. You see that I couldn't, don't you?"

"I know he does not feel he owes you anything-in the way you are accusing him," answered Louise, wisely. "He is doing this because you are you and he cannot bear to think of you suffering for things when he wants to help you more than he could dare to tell you now. Mary, don't you see? I think, too, you must pay him back some day, but don't worry about it. You would hurt him too much if you do not take plenty of time to get strong and well before repaying him-paltry dollars. There will be a way found, never fear. Meanwhile you can amuse yourself correcting my transcripts to keep you content till something turns up, and we will _make_ something turn up. Wait until this term is over and don't fret.

You won't fret, will you?"

"I will try not to, Louise," said Mary, with a little weary gesture of acquiescence.

CHAPTER XIV

CHANNEL ICE

A jolly party set off for Velpen Sunday morning. Hank Bruebacher had remained over night on purpose to escort them to the river in his 'bus.

It had been caught on the wrong side. The channel had closed over about the middle of the week. The ice had been very thin at first; there had been no drop of the thermometer, but a gradual lowering night after night had at last made men deem it safe to cross on foot. A rumor to this effect had drifted in to the tired jurors hanging around and killing time, waiting to be called. Sunday in Kemah was impossible-to many. Besides, they had had a week of it. They were sure of a good dinner at Velpen, where there had been no such fearful inroads on the supplies, and the base of whose supplies, moreover, was not cut off as it was at Kemah by the closing of the river, which was not yet solid enough for traffic. That consideration held weight with many. Saloon service was a little better, and that, too, had its votaries. Business appointments actuated Gordon and perhaps a few others. _Ennui_ pure and simple moved the Court and the Court's a.s.sistant.

It was about ten in the morning. It was frosty, but bright, and the little cold snap bade fair to die prematurely. It surely was wonderful weather for South Dakota.

"Where is Mary?" asked the Judge, as Louise came lightly down the stairs, ready to put on her gloves.

"She went out to the Whites' an hour or so ago-to do the week's was.h.i.+ng, I suspect. Mr. Langford took her out."

"Louise! On Sunday!" Even the tolerant Judge was shocked.

"It's true, Uncle Hammond," persisted Louise, earnestly.

She wore a modish hat that was immensely becoming, and looked charming.

Gordon stood at the worn, wooden steps, hat off, despite the nipping air, waiting to a.s.sist her to the place the gallant Hank had reserved for her.

He sat down at her right, Judge Dale at her left. The jurymen filled the other places rapidly. The heavy wagon lurched forward. The road was good; there had been no snows or thaws. Now was Hank in his element. It is very probable that he was the most unreservedly contented man in seven States that fair Sunday morning-always excepting Munson of the Three Bars. A few straggling buckboards and hors.e.m.e.n brought up the rear. Judge Dale, taking to himself as much room as it was possible to confiscate with elbows slyly pressed outward chickenwing-wise, fished out his newspaper leisurely, leaned over Gordon to say in a matter-of-fact voice, "Just amuse Louise for a little while, will you, d.i.c.k, while I glance at the news; you won't have to play, just talk,-she likes to talk," and buried himself in the folds of the jiggling paper; much jiggled because Hank had no intention of permitting any vehicle to pa.s.s the outfit of which the Judge was pa.s.senger while he, Hank Bruebacher, held the reins. He was an authority of the road, and as such, he refused to be pa.s.sed by anything on wheels.

The rattle of the wagon drowned all coherent conversation. The Judge's outspread arms had forced Louise very close to her neighbor on the right, who had the instructions to keep her amused, but even then he must bend his head if he were to obey orders strictly and-talk. He chose to obey. Last night, he had been worn out with the strain of the week; he had not been able to forget things. To-day,-well, to-day was to-day.

"Are you going to hear the bishop?" asked Louise. It was a little hard to make conversation when every time one lifted one's eyes one found one's self so startlingly close to a man's fine face.

"Surely!" responded Gordon. "An incomparable scholar-an indefatigable workman-truest of saints." There was grave reverence in his lowered voice.