Part 14

The Girl’s lips parted to answer, then closed again dumbly,--for it was then that she saw the boots, then the legs of the road agent slide uncertainly through the open trap, fumble clumsily for the rungs of the ladder, then slip and stumble as the weight of the following body came upon them while the weak fingers strained desperately for a hold. The whole heart and soul and mind of the Girl seemed to be reaching out impotently to give her lover strength, to hurry him down fast enough to forestall a shot from the Sheriff. It seemed hours until the road agent reached the bottom of the ladder, then lurched with unseeing eyes to a chair and, finally, fell forward limply, with his arms and head resting on the table. Still dumb with dread, the Girl watched Rance slowly circle round the wounded man; it was not until the Sheriff returned his pistol to its holster that she breathed freely again.

“So, you dropped into The Polka to-night to play a little game of poker? Funny how things change about in an hour or two!” Rance chuckled mirthlessly; it seemed to suit his sardonic humour to taunt his helpless rival. “You think you can play poker,--that’s your conviction, is it? Well, you can play freeze-out as to your chances, Mr. Johnson of Sacramento. Come, speak up,--it’s shooting or the tree,--which shall it be?”

Goaded beyond endurance by Rance’s taunting of the unconscious man, the Girl, fumbling in her bosom for her pistol, turned upon him in a sudden, cold fury:

“You better stop that laughin’, Jack Rance, or I’ll send you to finish it in some place where things ain’t so funny.”

Something in the Girl’s altered tone so struck the Sheriff that he obeyed her. He said nothing, but on his lips were the words, “By Heaven, the Girl means it!” and his eyes showed a smouldering admiration.

“He doesn’t hear you,--he’s out of it. But me--me--I hear you--I ain’t out of it,” the Girl went on in compelling tones. “You’re a gambler; he was, too; well, so am I.” She crossed deliberately to the bureau, and laid her pistol away in the drawer, Rance meanwhile eyeing her with puzzled interest. Returning, she went on, incisively as a whip lash: “I live on chance money, drink money, card money, saloon money. We’re gamblers,--we’re all gamblers!” She paused, an odd expression coming over her face,--an expression that baffled Rance’s power to read. Presently she resumed: “Now, you asked me to-night if my answer was final,--well, here’s your chance. I’ll play you the game,--straight poker. It’s two out o’ three for me. Hatin’ the sight o’ you, it’s the nearest chance you’ll ever get for me.”

“Do you mean--” began Rance, his hands resting on the table, his hawk-like glance burning into her very thoughts.

“Yes, with a wife in Noo Orleans all right,” she interrupted him feverishly. “If you’re lucky,--you’ll git ’im an’ me. But if you lose,--this man settin’ between us is mine--mine to do with as I please, an’ you shut up an’ lose like a gentleman.”

“You must be crazy about him!” The words seemed wrung from the Sheriff against his will.

“That’s my business!” came like a knife-cut from the Girl.

“Do you know you’re talkin’ to the Sheriff?”

“I’m talkin’ to Jack Rance, the gambler,” she amended evenly.

“You’re right,--and he’s just fool enough to take you up,” returned Rance with sudden decision. He looked around him for a chair; there was one near the table, and the Girl handed it to him. With one hand he swung it into place before the table, while with the other he jerked off the table-cover, and flung it across the room. Johnson neither moved nor groaned, as the edge slid from beneath his nerveless arms.

“You and the cyards have got into my blood. I’ll take you up,” he said, seating himself.

“Your word,” demanded the Girl, leaning over the table, but still standing.

“I can lose like a gentleman,” returned Rance curtly; then, with a swift seizure of her hand, he continued tensely, in tones that made the Girl shrink and whiten, “I’m hungry for you, Min, and if I win, I’ll take it out on you as long as I have breath.”

A moment later, the Girl had freed her hand from his clasp, and was saying evenly, “Fix the lamp.” And while the Sheriff was adjusting the wick that had begun to flare up smokily, she swiftly left the room, saying casually over her shoulder that she was going to fetch something from the closet.

“What you goin’ to get?” he called after her suspiciously. The Girl made no reply. Rance made no movement to follow her, but instead drew a pack of cards from his pocket and began to shuffle them with practiced carelessness. But when a minute had passed and the girl had not returned, he called once more, with growing impatience, to know what was keeping her.

“I’m jest gettin’ the cards an’ kind o’ steadyin’ my nerves,” she answered somewhat queerly through the doorway. The next moment she had returned, quickly closing the closet door behind her, blew out her candle, and laying a pack of cards upon the table, said significantly:

“We’ll use a fresh deck. There’s a good deal depends on this, Jack.” She seated herself opposite the Sheriff and so close to the unconscious form of the man she loved that from time to time her left arm brushed his shoulder.

Rance, without protest other than a shrug, took up his own deck of cards, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and stowed them away in his pocket. It was the Girl who spoke first:

“Are you ready?”

“Ready? Yes. I’m ready. Cut for deal.”

With unfaltering fingers, the Girl cut. Of the man beside her, dead or dying, she must not, dared not think. For the moment she had become one incarnate purpose: to win, to win at any cost,--nothing else mattered.

Rance won the deal; and taking up the pack he asked, as he shuffled:

“A case of show-down?”

“Show-down.”

“Cut!” once more peremptorily from Rance; and then, when she had cut, one question more: “Best two out of three?”

“Best two out of three.” Swift, staccato sentences, like the rapid crossing of swords, the first preliminary interchange of strokes before the true duel begins.

Rance dealt the cards. Before either looked at them, he glanced across at the Girl and asked scornfully, perhaps enviously:

“What do you see in him?”

“What do you see in me?” she flashed back instantly, as she picked up her cards; and then: “What have you got?”

“King high,” declared the gambler.

“King high here,” echoed the Girl.

“Jack next,” and he showed his hand.

“Queen next,” and the Girl showed hers.

“You’ve got it,” conceded the gambler, easily. Then, in another tone, “but you’re making a mistake--”

“If I am, it’s my mistake! Cut!”

Rance cut the cards. The Girl dealt them steadily. Then,

“What have you got?” she asked.

“One pair,--aces. What have you?”

“Nothing,” throwing her cards upon the table.

With just a flicker of a smile, the Sheriff once more gathered up the pack, saying smoothly:

“Even now,--we’re even.”

“It’s the next hand that tells, Jack, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the next hand that tells me,--I’m awfully sorry,--” the words seemed to come awkwardly; her glance was troubled, almost contrite, “at any rate, I want to say jest now that no matter how it comes out--”

“Cut!” interjected Rance mechanically.

“--that I’ll always think of you the best I can,” completed the Girl with much feeling. “An’ I want you to do the same for me.”

Silently, inscrutably, the gambler dealt the ten cards, one by one. But as the Girl started to draw hers toward her, his long, thin fingers reached across once more and closed not ungently upon hand and cards.

“The last hand, Girl!” he reminded her. “And I’ve a feeling that I win,--that in one minute I’ll hold you in my arms.” And still covering her fingers with his own, he stole a glance at his cards.

“I win,” he announced, briefly, his eyes alone betraying the inward fever. He dropped the cards before her on the table. “Three kings,--and the _last hand_!”

Suddenly, as though some inward cord had snapped under the strain, the Girl collapsed. Limply she slid downward in her chair, one groping hand straying aimlessly to her forehead, then dropping of its own weight. “Quick, Jack,--I’m ill,--git me somethin’!” The voice trailed off to nothingness as the drooping eyelids closed.

In real consternation, the Sheriff sprang to his feet. In one sweeping glance his alert eye caught the whisky bottle upon the mantel. “All right, Girl, I’ll fix you in no time,” he said cheeringly over his shoulder. But where the deuce did she keep her tumblers? The next minute he was groping for them in the dark of the adjoining closet and softly cursing himself for his own slowness.

Instantaneously, the Girl came to life. The unturned cards upon the table vanished with one lightning movement; the Girl’s hand disappeared beneath her skirts, raised for the moment knee-high; then the same, swift reverse motion, and the cards were back in place, while the Girl’s eyes trembled shut again, to hide the light of triumph in them. A smile flickered on her lips as the Sheriff returned with the glass and bottle.

“Never mind,--I’m better now,” her lips shaped weakly.

The Sheriff set down the bottle, and put his arm around the Girl with a rough tenderness.

“Oh, you only fainted because you lost,” he told her.

Averting her gaze, the Girl quietly disengaged herself, rose to her feet and turned her five cards face upwards.

“No, Jack, it’s because I’ve won,--three aces and a pair.”

The Sheriff shot one glance at the girl, keen, searching. Then, without so much as the twitch of an eyelid, he accepted his defeat, took a cigar from his pocket and lit it, the flame of the match revealing no expression other than the nonchalance for which he was noted; then, picking up his hat and coat he walked slowly to the door. Here he halted and wished her a polite good-night--so ceremoniously polite that at any other time it would have compelled her admiration.

Pale as death and almost on the point of collapse, the Girl staggered back to the table where the wounded road agent was half-sitting, half-lying. Thrusting her hand now into the stocking from which she had obtained the winning, if incriminating, cards, she drew forth those that remained and scattered them in the air, crying out hysterically:

“Three aces an’ a pair an’ a stockin’ full of pictures--but his life belongs to me!”

XIV

Conscious-stricken at the fraud that she had imposed upon the gambler, the Girl lived a lifetime in the moments that followed his departure. With her face buried in her hands she stood lost in contemplation of her shameful secret.

A sound--the sound of a man in great pain checked her hysterical sobs. Dazed, she passed her hand over her face as if to clear away the dark shades that were obstructing her vision. Another groan--and like a flash she was down on her knees lavishing endearments upon the road agent.

Never before, it is true, had the Girl had any experience in gun-shot wounds. She had played the part of nurse, however, more than once when the boys met with accidents at the mines. For the women of the California camps at that time had endless calls upon them. It was a period for sacrifices innumerable, and help and sympathy were never asked that they were not freely given. So, if the Girl did not know the very best thing to do, she knew, at least, what not to do, and it was only a few minutes before she had cut the coat from his back.

The next thing to be done--the dragging of the unconscious man to the bed--was hard work, of course, but being strong of arm, as well as stout of heart, she at last accomplished it.

Now she cut away his shirt in order to find the wound, which proved to be in his breast. Quickly then she felt with her fingers in an endeavour to find the ball, but in this she was unsuccessful. So after a moment’s deliberation she made up her mind that the wound was a flesh one and that the ball was anywhere but in the man’s body--a diagnosis that was largely due to the cheerful optimism of her nature and which, fortunately, proved to be true.

Presently she went to a corner of the room and soon returned with a basin of water and some hastily torn bandages. For a good fifteen minutes after that she washed the gash and, finally, bandaged it as well as she knew how. And now, having done all that her knowledge or instinct prompted, she drew up a chair and prepared to pass the rest of the night in watching by his side.

For an hour or so he slept the sleep of unconsciousness. In the room not a sound could be heard, but outside the storm still roared and raged. It was anything but an easy or cheerful situation: Here she was alone with a wounded, if not dying, man; and she well knew that, unless there came an abatement in the fury of the storm, it might be days before anyone could climb the mountain. True, the Indians were not far off, but like as not they would remain in their wigwam until the sun came forth again. In the matter of food there was a scant supply, but probably enough to tide them over until communication could be had with The Polka.

For three days she watched over him, and all the time the storm continued. On the third day he became delirious, and that was the night of her torture. Despite a feeling that she was taking an unfair advantage of him, the Girl strained her ears to catch a name which, in his delirium, was constantly on his lips; but she could not make it out. All that she knew was that it was not her name that he spoke, and it pained her. She had given him absolute faith and trust and, already, she was overwhelmed with the fierce flames of jealousy. It was a new sensation, this being jealous of anyone, and it called forth a passionate resentment. In such moments she would rise and flee to the other end of the room until the whispered endearments had ceased. Then she would draw near again with flushes of shame on her cheeks for having heeded the sayings of an irresponsible person, and she would take his head in her lap and, caressing him the while, would put cold towels on his heated brow.

Dawn of the fourth day saw the Girl still pale and anxious, though despair had entirely left her; for the storm was over and colour and speech had come back to the man early that morning. Love and good nursing, not to speak of some excellent whisky that she happened to have stored away in her cabin, had pulled him through. With a sigh of relief she threw herself down on the rug for a much-needed rest.

The man woke just before the sun rose. His first thought, that he was home in the foothills, was dissipated by the sight of the snow ranges. Through the window of the cabin, as far as the eye could see, nothing of green was visible. Snow was everywhere; everything was white, save at the eastern horizon where silver was fast changing into rose and rose to a fiery red as the fast-rising sun sent its shafts over the snow-coated mountains.

And now there came to him a full realisation of what had happened and where he was. To his amazement, though, he was almost without pain. That his wound had been dressed he was, of course, well aware for when he attempted to draw back still further the curtain at the window the movement strained the tight bandage, and he was instantly made conscious of a twinge of pain.

Nevertheless, he persevered, for he wisely decided that it would be well to reconnoitre, to familiarise himself, as much as possible, with the lay of the land and find out whether the trail that he had followed to reach the cabin which, he recalled, was perched high up above a ravine, was the only means of communication with the valley below. It was a useless precaution, for the snow would have wholly obliterated any such trail had there been one and, soon realising the fact, he fell back exhausted by his effort on the pillows.

A half hour passed and the man began to grow restless. He had, of course, no idea whatever of the length of time he had been in the cabin, and he knew that he must be thinking of an immediate escape. In desperation, he tried to get out of bed, but the task was beyond his power. At that a terrible feeling of hopelessness assailed him. His only chance was to reach the valley where he had little fear of capture; but wounded, as he was, that seemed out of the question, and he saw himself caught like a rat in a trap. In an access of rage at the situation in which he was placed he made another effort to raise himself up on his elbow and peer through the window at the Sierras. The noise that he made, slight though it was, awoke the Girl. In an instant she was at his bedside drawing the curtain over the window.

“What you thinkin’ of?” she asked “At any moment--jest as soon as the trail can be cleared--there’ll be someone of the boys up here to see how I’ve pulled through. They mustn’t see you....”

Forcibly, but with loving tenderness, she put him back among his pillows and seated herself by the bed. An awkward silence followed. For now that the man was in his right senses it was borne in upon her that he might remember that she had fed him, given him drink and fondled him. It was a situation embarrassing to both. Neither knew just what to say or how to begin. At length, the voice from the bed spoke:

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days.”

“And you have nursed me all that--”

“You mustn’t talk,” warned the girl. “It’s dangerous in more ways than one. But if you keep still no one’ll suspect that you’re here.”

“But I must know what happened,” he insisted with increasing excitement. “I remember nothing after I came down the ladder. The Sheriff--Rance--what’s become...?”

The Girl chided him with gentle authority.

“You keep perfectly still--you mustn’t say nothin’ ’til you’ve rested. Everythin’s all right an’ you needn’t worry a bit.” But then seeing that he chafed at this, she added: “Well, then, I’ll tell you all there is to know.” And then followed an account of the happenings of that night. It was not a thoroughly truthful tale, for in her narrative she told him only what she thought was necessary and good for him to know, keeping the rest to herself. And when she had related all that there was to tell she insisted upon his going to sleep again, giving him no opportunity whatsoever to speak, since she left his bedside after drawing the curtains.

Unwillingly the man lay back and tried to force himself to be patient; but he fretted at the enforced quietude and, as a result, sleep refused to come to him. From time to time he could hear the Girl moving noiselessly about the room. The knowledge that she was there gave him a sense of security, and he began to let his thoughts dwell upon her. No longer did he doubt but what she was a real influence now; and the thought had the effect of making him keenly alive to what his life had been. It was not a pleasant picture that he looked back upon, now that he had caught a glimpse of what life might mean with the Girl at his side. From the moment that he had taken her in his arms he realised to the full that his cherished dream had come true; he realised, also, that there was now but one answer to the question of keeping to the oath given to his father, and that was that gratitude--for he had guessed rightly, though she had not told him, that she had saved him from capture by the Sheriff and his posse--demanded that he should put an end to his vocation and devote his life henceforth to making her happy.

Once or twice while thus communing with himself he fancied that he heard voices. It seemed to him that he recognised Nick’s voice. But whoever it was, he spoke in whispers, and though the wounded man strove to hear, he was unsuccessful.

After a while he heard the door close and then the tension was somewhat relaxed, for he knew that she was keeping his presence in her cabin a secret with all the wiles of a clever and loving woman. And more and more he determined to gain an honoured place for her in some community--an honoured place for himself and her. Vague, very vague, of course, were the new purposes and plans that had so suddenly sprang up because of her influence, but the desire to lead a clean life had touched his heart, and since his old calling had never been pleasing to him, he did not for a moment doubt his ability to succeed.

The morning was half gone when the Girl returned to her patient. Then, in tones that did her best to make her appear free from anxiety, she told him that it was the barkeeper, as he had surmised, with whom she had been talking and that she had been obliged to take him into her confidence. The man made no comment, for the situation necessarily was in her hands, and he felt that she could be relied upon not to make any mistake. Four people, he was told, knew of his presence in the cabin. So far as Rance was concerned she had absolute faith in his honour, gambler though he was; there was nothing that Nick would not do for her; and as for the Indians, the secret was sure to be kept by them, unless Jackrabbit got hold of some whisky--a contingency not at all likely, for Nick had promised to see to that. In fact, all could be trusted to be as silent as the grave.

The invalid had listened intently; nevertheless, he sighed:

“It’s hard to lie here. I don’t want to be caught _now_.”

The Girl smiled at the emphasis on the last word, for she knew that it referred to her. Furthermore, she had divined pretty well what had been his thoughts concerning his old life; but, being essentially a woman of action and not words, she said nothing.

A moment or so later he asked her to read to him. The Girl looked as she might have looked if he had asked her to go to the moon. Notwithstanding, she got up and, presently, returned with a lot of old school-books, which she solemnly handed over for his inspection.

The invalid smiled at the look of earnestness on the Girl’s face.

“Not these?” he gently inquired. “Where is the Dante you were telling me about?”

Once more the Girl went over to the book-shelf; when she came back she handed him a volume, which he glanced over carefully before showing her the place where he wished her to begin to read to him.

At first the Girl was embarrassed and stumbled badly. But on seeing that he seemed not to notice it she gained courage and acquitted herself creditably, at least, so she flattered herself, for she could detect, as she looked up from time to time, no expression other than pleasure on his face. It may be surmised, though, that Johnson had not merely chosen a page at random; on the contrary, when the book was in his hand he had quickly found the lines which the Girl had, so to say, paraphrased, and he was intensely curious to see how they would appeal to her. But now, apparently, she saw nothing in the least amusing in them, nor in other passages fully as sentimental. In fact, no comment of any kind was forthcoming from her--though Johnson was looking for it and, to tell the truth, was somewhat disappointed--when she read that Dante had probably never spoken more than twice to Beatrice and his passion had no other food than the mists of his own dreaming. However, it was different when,--pausing before each word after the manner of a child,--she came to a passage of the poet’s, and read:

“‘In that moment I say most truly that the spirit of life, which hath its dwelling in the most secret chambers of the heart, began to tremble so violently that the least pulse of my body shook herewith, and in the trembling it said these words: “Here is a deity stronger than I who, coming shall rule over me.”’”

At that the Girl let the book fall and, going down on her knees and taking both his hands in hers, she raised to him a look so full of adoring worship that he felt himself awed before it.

“That ’ere Dante ain’t so far off after all. I know jest how he feels. Oh, I ain’t fit to read to you, to talk to you, to kiss you.”

Nevertheless, he saw to it that she did.