Chapter 25

THE PROOF OF LOVE

The dreaded night settled down dark but clear, a myriad of stars gloriously bright in the vast vault overhead, the clinging shadows black and gloomy along the tree-fringed ridge. Nature, hushed into repose, appeared alone in possession, the solemn silence of peaceful night enveloping the vast canyon and its overhanging mountains. Amid the gathering gloom all animate life seemed to have sought rest, to have found covert. The last glimpse which the watchful guardians of the "Little Yankee" gained of the surroundings of the "Independence" revealed nothing to awaken immediate alarm. A few men idly came and went about the shaft-house and ore-dump, but otherwise the entire claim appeared deserted. No hostile demonstration of any kind had been attempted since Farnham's retreat, and now no sign of contemplated attack was to be perceived. The large number of men visible earlier in the day had mysteriously disappeared; not even the searching field-glasses served to reveal their whereabouts. In the gathering darkness no lights bore witness to the slightest activity; everywhere it remained black and silent.

To those wearied men on guard this secrecy seemed ominous of approaching evil. They comprehended too clearly the vengeful nature of their enemy to be lulled thus into any false security. Such skulking could be accepted only as a symptom of treachery, of some deep-laid plan for surprise. But what? Would Farnham, in his desperation, his anxiety to cover up all evidences of crime, resort to strategy, or to force? Would he utilize the law, behind which he was now firmly entrenched, or would he rely entirely upon the numbers he controlled to achieve a surer, quicker victory? That he possessed men in plenty to work his will the defenders of the "Little Yankee" knew from observation. These were of the kind to whom fighting was a trade. They must be there yet, hiding somewhere in the chaparral, for none had retreated down the trail. Backed by the mandates of law, convinced that they had nothing to fear legally, that they were merely executing the decrees of court, they would hardly be likely to hesitate at the committal of any atrocity under such a leader. But where would they strike, and how? What could be the purpose of their delay? the object of their secrecy? That there must be both purpose and object could not be doubted; yet nothing remained but to watt for their revelation.

An obscuring mist hung over the canyon, stretching from wall to wall. Beneath the revealing starlight it was like looking down upon a restless, silent expanse of gray sea. A stray breath of air came sucking up the gorge, causing the many spectral trees outlined against the lighter sky to wave their branches, the leaves rustling as though swept by rain. There was a faint moaning among the distant rocks as if hidden caverns were filled with elves at play. It was weird, lonely, desolate,--straining eyes beholding everywhere the same scene of deserted wilderness.

Old Hicks lay flat under protection of the ore-dump, his ear pressed close to the earth, his contracted eyes searching anxiously those dark hollows in front, a Winchester, cocked and ready, within the grasp of his hand. Above, Irish Mike, sniffing the air as though he could smell danger like a pointer dog, hung far out across the parapet of rock, every eager nerve tingling in the hope of coming battle. Winston remained in the cabin door, behind him the open room black and silent, his loaded Winchester between his feet, gamely struggling to overcome a vague foreboding of impending trouble, yet alert and ready to bear his part. It was then that Stutter Brown led the saddled pony forward from out the concealment of bushes. The long awaited moment had come for action. To his whispered word, Mercedes fluttered promptly forth through the shadowed doorway, and pressed her face lovingly against the pony's quickly uplifted nose.

"See," she whispered, patting Brown's brawny arm even while she continued toying playfully with the silken mane, "he know me, he lofe me. He bettah as any man, for he nevah tell lie,--nevah,--only be nice all de time. He ride me till he drop dead, swift, quick, like de bird fly. So I make eet all right, señor. You see ven de daylight come I be San Juan. Den I make mooch fun for de Señor Farnham--sure I do."

"I-I reckon you 'll m-make it all right, l-l-little girl," answered the man regretfully, his voice hushed to a low growl, "b-but jest the same I a-ain't so darn g-g-glad ter l-let yer go. H-hanged ef I would, either, if I d-did n't th-think the toughest part o' it wus g-goin' ter be right yere."

She glanced almost shyly up into his shadowed face, her black eyes like stars.

"Si--dat vas eet. I vas de coward; I just runs avay so 'fraid of de fight. I no like de fight von leetle bit. But I know you, señor; you vant to stay here, an' have de fun. You Americano an' like dat ver' mooch. I feel of de big arm, so, an' I know eet ees bettah dat you be here. I mooch like please you, señor."

He clasped her hand where it rested small and white against his sleeve, hiding it completely within his own great fist; when he spoke she could mark the tremble in the deep voice.

"Y-you 're a m-mighty fine girl," he managed to say, simply, "but we g-got ter go now. I-I reckon yer b-b-better walk fer a ways, as the p-pony will step lighter."

"I not care, señor," softly. "Eet be nice to valk; I nevah 'fraid vid you."

Brown led the way forward cautiously across the open space, one strong hand firm on the pony's bit, the other barely touching her dress as though it were something sacred. She endeavored to discern his face in the faint starlight, but the low-drawn hat brim shaded it into black lines, revealing nothing. The light, easy words she sought to speak, hoping thus to keep him from more serious talk, would not come to her lips. There was so much of silence and mystery on every side, so much of doubt in this venture, that, in spite of her gay manner, every nerve tingled with excitement. Glancing up at him she bit her lips in embarrassment. It was Stutter who finally found voice, his mind drifting back to what she had lately said in carelessness.

"Y-yer said that the p-p-pony never l-lied like a man," he began doubtfully. "Yer d-did n't mean that f-fer me, did yer?"

There was something so deeply pathetic about the tone in which he asked this as to hurt her, and the slender fingers still clasping his sleeve suddenly closed more tightly.

"Señor, you mus' not say dat; you mus' not tink dat. No, no! I speak that only in fun, señor--nevah I believe dat, nevah. You good man, more good as Mercedes; she not vort' von leetle bit de lofe you say to her, but she feel mooch shame to have you tink dat she mean you ven she speak such ting in fun."

He halted suddenly, all remembrance of their surroundings, their possible peril, as instantly erased from his mind. He merely saw that girl face upturned to his in the starlight, so fair and pleading, he merely heard that soft voice urging her unworthiness, her sorrow. A great, broad-shouldered giant he towered above her, yet his voice trembled like that of a frightened child.

"An' d-don't yer say that n-no more," he stuttered in awkwardness. "Somehow it hurts. L-Lord! yer don't h-have ter be s-s-so blame good ter be u-up ter my level. Th-they don't b-breed no a-angels back in ol' M-Missouri, whar I come from. It's m-mostly mules thar, an' I r-reckon we all g-git a bit mulish an' ornery. B-but I 'spect I 'm d-decent 'nough ter know the r-right sort o' girl when I s-stack up agin her. So I don't w-want ter hear no m-more 'bout yer not b-bein' good. Ye 're sure g-good 'nough fer me, an' th-that 's all thar is to it. Now, yer w-won't say that no more, w-will yer?"

"No, señor," she answered simply, "I no say dat no more."

He remained standing before her, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, a great hulk in the gloom.

"Mercedes," he managed to say finally, "Ye're a-g-goin' ter ride away, an' m-maybe thar'll be o-one hell o' a fracas up yere afore the rest o' us g-g-git out o' this scrape. I d-don't reckon as it'll b-be me as will git h-hurt, but somehow I 'd f-feel a heap better if you 'd j-jest say them words what I a-asked yer to afore yer g-go, little g-girl; I would that."

She put her hands to her face, and then hid it against the pony's neck, her slight form trembling violently beneath the touch of his fingers. The strange actions of the girl, her continued silence, half frightened him.

"Maybe yer a-ain't ready yit?" he questioned, his manner full of apology.

"Oh, señor, I cannot say dat--sure I cannot," she sobbed, her face yet hidden. "Maybe I say so some time ven I know eet bettah how eet ought to be; si, maybe so. But not now; I not tink it be jus' right to say now. I not angry--no, no! I ver' glad you tink so of Mercedes--it make me mooch joy. I not cry for dat, señor; I cry for odder tings. Maybe you know some time, an' be ver' sorry vid me. But I not cry any more. See, I stan' up straight, an' look you in de face dis vay." She drew her hand swiftly across her eyes. "Dar, de tear all gone; now I be brav', now I not be 'fraid. You not ask me dat now--not now; to-morrow, nex' veek, maybe I know better how to say de trut' vat vas in my heart--maybe I know den; now eet all jumble up. I tink I know, but de vord not come like I vant eet."

He turned silently away from her, leading the pony forward, his head bent low, his shoulders stooped. There was a dejection apparent about the action which her eyes could not mistake. She touched him pleadingly.

"You no ver' angry Mercedes, señor?"

Brown half turned about, and rested one great hand upon her soft hair in mute caress.

"N-no, little girl, it a-ain't that," he admitted slowly. "Only I 'm b-blamed if I jest e-exactly grasp yer s-style. I reckon I 'll kn-know what yer mean s-sometime."

Could he have seen clearly he might have marked the swift, hot tears dimming her eyes, but he never dreamed of their presence, for her lips were laughing.

"Maybe so, señor, maybe. I glad you not angry, for I no like dat. Eet vas nice I fool you so; dat vas vat make de men lofe, ven dey not know everyting. Ven day know dem maybe eet all be over vid. So maybe I show you sometime, maybe not--_quien sabe_?"

If her lightly spoken words hurt, he realized the utter futility of striving then to penetrate their deeper meaning. They advanced slowly, moving in more closely against the great ridge of rocks where the denser shadows clung, the man's natural caution becoming apparent as his mind returned to a consideration of the dangerous mission upon which they were embarked. To-morrow would leave him free from all this, but now he must conduct her in safety to that mist-shrouded plain below.

They had moved forward for perhaps a dozen yards, the obedient pony stepping as silently as themselves, Mercedes a foot or two to the rear, when Brown suddenly halted, staring fixedly at something slightly at one side of their path. There, like a huge baleful eye glaring angrily at him, appeared a dull red glow. An instant he doubted, wondered, his mind confused. Tiny sparks sputtered out into the darkness, and the miner understood. He had blindly stumbled upon a lighted fuse, a train of destruction leading to some deed of hell. With an oath he leaped recklessly forward, stamping the creeping flame out beneath his feet, crushing it lifeless between his heavy boots and the rock.

There was an angry shout, the swift rush of feet, the red flare of a rifle cleaving the night with burst of flame. In the sudden, unearthly glare Brown caught dim sight of faces, of numerous dark figures leaping toward him, but he merely crouched low. The girl! he must protect the girl! That was all he knew, all he considered, excepting a passionate hatred engendered by one of those faces he had just seen. They were upon him in mass, striking, tearing like so many wild beasts in the first fierceness of attack. His revolver jammed in its holster, but he struck out with clenched fists, battering at the black figures, his teeth ground together, his every instinct bidding him fight hard till he died. Once they pounded him to his knees, but he struggled up, shaking loose their gripping hands, and hurling them back like so many children. He was crazed by then with raging battle-fury, his hot blood lusting, every great muscle strained to the uttermost. He realized nothing, saw nothing, but those dim figures facing him; insensible to the blood trickling down the front of his shirt, unconscious of wound, he flung himself forward a perfect madman, jerking a rifle from the helpless fingers of an opponent, and smiting to right and left, the deadly-iron bar whirling through the air. He struck once, twice; he saw bodies whirl sidewise and fall to the ground. Then suddenly he seemed alone, panting fiercely, the smashed rifle-stock uplifted for a blow.

"It's the big fellow," roared a voice at his left. "Why don't you fools shoot?"

He sprang backward, crouching lower, his one endeavor to draw their fire, so as to protect her lying hidden among the rock shadows. He felt nothing except contempt for those fellows, but he could not let them hurt her. He stood up full in the starlight, shading his eyes in an attempt to see. Somebody cried, "There he is, damn him!" A slender figure swept flying across the open space like some dim night vision. A red flame leaped forth from the blackness. The two stood silhouetted against the glare, reeled backward as it faded, and went down together in the dark.