Читать книгу: «Rim o' the World», страница 15

Belle turned and looked at Lance. “Honey, it’s that kind of thing–”

“I used to think, Belle, that you had the bluest eyes in the whole world,” Lance drawled quizzically. “They’re blue enough, in all conscience–by heck, Belle! Does a Lorrigan always love blue eyes?”

“I was going to say that–”

“You were going to say that you were not going to say a darned thing, madam. You need a vacation, a trip somewhere. Why don’t you beat it, and get your nerves smoothed down a little?”

“Lance, you don’t believe Duke–”

“Belle, your boys are old enough to think of girls a little bit, now and then. Even your baby thinks of girls–a little bit. Now and then. I’m going fishing, Belle. I’m going to fish where there are fish. And if I’m not back by the clock, for heck’s sake don’t get yourself excited and call me a mystery.”

She called after him. “Lance, come back here and tell me the truth! You don’t believe–”

“Belle, I’ll tell you the truth. Sure, I’ll tell you the truth. I tell you to cut out this worrying over nothing. Why, don’t you know the world is plumb full of real things to worry about?” He came close, patting her on the shoulder as one pats a child who feels abused for slight cause. “This notion of yours–it’s all damned nonsense. Cut it out.”

He went off whistling, and Belle gazed after him dubiously, yet reassured in spite of herself. After all, there was nothing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WHEN A LORRIGAN LOVES

Followed a day of sweltering heat, when the horses in the corral switched flies and sweated doing nothing; when all of the chickens crawled under the coolest shelter they could find, and panted with their wings spread away from their bodies; when the wind was like a blast from an open furnace, and no man of his own choice remained in the sun.

In the shade of the biggest haystack, Tom and Al squatted on their boot heels with their faces toward the corral and the houses beyond, and talked for two hours in low monotones while they broke spears of fragrant hay into tiny bits and snapped the bits from them with thumb and finger. From the house porch Lance saw them there and wondered what they were talking about so long. He even meditated committing the crime of eavesdropping, but he decided against it. Even if there had been any point from which he could approach the two unseen, his soul rebelled against such tactics employed in cold blood.

Devil’s Tooth Ranch dragged somehow through its third day of inaction, and that night prepared itself to sleep if possible, though the hot wind still blew half a gale and the sky was too murky to show any stars.

Daylight found Lance awake and brooding as he had done ever since his return. He heard no sound in the house, and after a while he dressed and went down to the bunk house. It was empty. No extra horses had been corralled the night before, of that he was sure. Yet the boys were gone again, and with them had gone Tom and Al. He looked and saw Coaley in the box stall.

On this morning Lance asked no questions of Sam Pretty Cow or Shorty, who presently appeared and went listlessly about their tasks. He returned to the house, heard Riley grinding coffee, and dressed for riding while he waited for breakfast. He was drinking his first cup of coffee when Belle appeared in a thin blue kimono and a lacey breakfast cap which Lance knew had been ordered from the big, dog-eared catalogue on the living room table. He roused himself from scowling meditation and gave her a smile.

“Sleep any?”

“Not much,” sighed Belle. “Tom–” she stopped and looked at Lance hesitatingly. “Tom had to push the cattle back from Lava Bed way–he says this weather’s drying up Lava Creek and the stock’ll suffer if they’re left drifting up and down the mud-holes where they’ve watered all summer. He took the boys and started about two in the morning–to get out of the heat. I–I didn’t think you’d want to go, honey–”

“You thought right. I didn’t want to go; it’s too hot,” Lance assured her, and refrained from looking at her face and the pathetic cheerfulness she was trying so hard to make real.

“It’s sultry. I thought yesterday I couldn’t stand another hour of that wind–but now I wish it would blow. It’s going to storm–”

“Yes. It’s going to storm.” Lance set down his empty cup. “I may go fishing, Belle. Don’t look for me back–I may ride over and see how the AJ is making out. The little Boyle girl is not married yet, I hope?”

“Oh–no. No, she isn’t. Lance, honey–”

Lance waited beside her chair, but Belle seemed to forget that she had anything to say. She sat leaning her head on one hand, the other stirring her coffee absent-mindedly. “Don’t get caught out,” she said apathetically.

“I won’t.” Lance lifted the lace frill of the cap and kissed her temple lightly. “Go back to bed. It’s too early for you to be up.”

At the stable Sam Pretty Cow looked a question, grunted and went on with his stall cleaning. Lance saddled Coaley, tied on an emergency ration of grub.

“Fishin’s good t’day. Storm’s coming. Uh-huh–you bet,” Sam Pretty Cow observed as Lance mounted.

“Maybe,” Lance assented non-committally and rode away.

There were no horse tracks in the trail, yet Lance followed it doggedly, the new-risen sun burning his back through two thin shirts. He seemed in no doubt this morning as to the course he should take. He scarcely gave a glance at the trail. His eyes were staring straight before him at a sullen row of blue-black “thunder heads” that showed above the gray skyline. Yet he did not see them, did not give a thought to their meaning.

He was thinking poignantly of Mary Hope, fighting the vivid impression which a dream last night had left with him. In his dream Mary Hope had stood at her door, with her hands held out to him beseechingly, and called and called: “Lance! Oh, Lance! I dinna hate you because you’re a Lorrigan–Oh, Lance!”

It had been a curious dream from start to finish. Curious because, in various forms, this was the third time he had seen her stand with hands outstretched, calling to him. He did not believe in dreams. He had neither patience for presentiments nor faith in anything that bordered on the occult.

It had been against much inner protest that he had ridden to the schoolhouse in obedience to the persistent idea that she needed him. That he had not found her there seemed to him conclusive proof that there was nothing in telepathy. The dreams, he felt sure, were merely a continuation of that persistent idea–and the persistent idea, he was beginning to believe, was but a perverse twist given to his own longing for her.

“–And I can’t go to her–not yet. Not while the Lorrigan name–” What came before, what came after those incomplete phrases he would not permit his mind to formulate in words. But he could not shake off the effect of the dream, could not stifle altogether the impulse that plucked at his resolve.

For more than an hour he rode and tried to fix his mind upon the thing he had set out to do. He knew perfectly well where he was going–and it was not to see Mary Hope. Neither was his destination Lava Creek nor the drying range on either side. His first two days of hard riding had been not altogether fruitless, and he had enough to think of without thinking of Mary Hope. Certain cold facts stared at him, and gibbered their sinister meaning, and dared him to ride on and discover other facts, blood-brothers of these that haunted him o’ nights.

Coaley, feeling his rider’s mood, sensing also the portent of the heavy, heat-saturated atmosphere and the rolling thunder heads, slowed his springy trot to a walk and tossed his head uneasily from side to side. Then, quite without warning, Lance wheeled the horse short around and touched the reeking flanks with his heels.

“I’m seventeen kinds of a damn fool–but I can’t stand any more of this!” he muttered savagely, and rode at a sharp trot with his back to the slow-gathering storm.

He found Mary Hope half a mile from the Douglas house, at the edge of the meadow round which Hugh was driving a mower, the steady, metallic clicking of the shuttle-like sickle sounding distinct from the farther side of the motionless green expanse. Mary Hope was standing leaning against one lone little poplar tree, her hat in her hand, and her eyes staring dully into the world of sorrowful thoughts. Relief and a great, hungry tenderness flooded the soul of Lance when he saw her. He pulled up and swung off beside her.

“Girl–thank the good God you’re all right,” he said, and took her in his arms, the veins on his temples beating full with his hot blood. “I had to come. I had to see you. You’ve haunted me. Your voice has called me–I was afraid–I had to come–and now I’m not going to let you go. Oh, girl, you’re mine! By all the powers of heaven and earth, you’re mine! The Lorrigan name–what does it matter? You’re mine–I love you. You’ll love me. I’ll make you love me. You’ll love me till you won’t care who I am or who you are, or whether there are any other people in the world–you’ll love me so! And I’ll love you always, always,–to death and beyond, and beyond what lies after that. Girl, girl–you do need me! You need my love. You need it because it’s the biggest thing in the world–and your love is going to match it. We’ll get married–we’ll make a world of our own, just you and I. We won’t care where we make it–it will be our world, the world of our love. Are you game? Are you game to love Lance the way Lance loves you? Oh, girl, tell me!”

A chill breath swept them like the memory of her father’s hate. A deep, basso rumble drowned whatever reply she stammered. He sheltered her in his arms, kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair, went back to her lips again.

“Oh, girl–when a Lorrigan loves–!” He cried softly, exultantly. “I tried not to–but I had to love you. It’s Fate. Are you afraid to love me back? Are you afraid?”

“No Lorrigan can cry coward to a Douglas,” Mary Hope panted. “But–but my mother will be that–”

“My mother will be that–all of that, and more,” Lance stopped her, still exulting in her love. “All the Lorrigans–what does it matter? Life’s for you and me to live, you girl with the bluest eyes in the world. When will you marry me? To-day? Tell me to-day!”

“Oh!” gasped Mary Hope, breathless still from the suddenness of it all. “Oh, not to-day–oh, but the headlong way you have! I–I canna think. I–”

“I don’t want you to think. I didn’t ask you to think. Just love me–that’s all. And marry me soon, Girl-with-the-blue-eyes. Soon. It must be soon–sooner than to-morrow–”

Splittingly the thunder crashed close behind them, a vivid white line cleaving sharply the snarling clouds. Like a sleeper Lance opened the eyes he had closed against her hair and lifted his head. “I must take you home,” he said more calmly. “It’s going to storm–hard. But let me tell you, sweetheart,–it can’t storm as hard as I can love. I’ll take you home, and then you’ll marry me.”

Mary Hope’s face was pale and radiant. She did not say that she would marry him–nor did she say that she would not. Her eyes were misty with tears until she winked hard, when they shone softly. Lance had never seen them so blue. She stood still, her hands clasped together tightly while he gathered up the reins and mounted. He pulled his foot from the left stirrup, reached down to her and smiled. Never had she seen him smile like that. Never had she seen that look in his eyes. She breathed deep, reached up and caught the saddle horn, put her foot in the stirrup and let him lift her beside him.

Against Coaley’s nervous pull at the bit Lance held a steadying hand and laughed. “It’s Fate, girl. Let the storm come. We’ll beat it–it can’t hurt us. Nothing can hurt us now.” He had to shout above the crashing thunder. “Do you love me, sweetheart?” His eyes, close to her own, flamed softly, making Mary Hope think dizzily of altar fires.

“I do–I do!” She gasped. “Oh, I cannot think how I love you–it scares me to think!” Her arm was around his neck, her face was turned to his.

He saw her lips form the words, guessed what it was she was saying. The crash on crash of thunder beat the sound of her voice to nothingness. The white glare of the lightning flashes blinded them. Coaley, quivering, his nostrils belling until they showed all red within, his big eyes staring, forged ahead, fighting the bit.

“He’s rinning away wi’ us!” shouted Lance, his lips close to her ear, and laughed boyishly.

“Mother–” he heard her say, and pulled her higher in his arms, so that he could be sure that she heard him.

“I’ll just pick your little old mother up in my arms and make her love me, too!” he cried. “Nothing can spoil our love–nothing!”

As though the gods themselves chided his temerity, the very heavens split and shattered all sound with rending uproar. Coaley squatted, stopped and stood shaking, his heart pounding so that Lance felt its tremulous tattoo against his thigh. The rumbling after-note of the thunder seemed like silence.

“It struck close. That shed–look!” Lance’s voice was no longer the voice of the young male whose love would override Fate itself. It was the voice of the man who will meet emergencies quietly, unflinchingly, and soothe the woman’s fear. “Don’t be afraid–it’s all right, sweetheart.”

He forced Coaley to go on. He smiled at Mary Hope’s pallor, he reassured her as they neared her home. A shed, sufficiently detached to keep its fire to itself, was blazing. The wind puffed suddenly from nowhere and waved the high, yellow flames like torn ribbons. Great globules of water splashed upon them from the pent torrent above. Coaley galloped through the gate, passed the house, shied at something lying on the ground, stopped abruptly when Lance pulled sharply on the bit.

“Girl–sweetheart–be game!” Lance said sternly when Mary Hope screamed.

He let her to the ground, swung off and passed her, running to the pitifully still little figure of Mother Douglas lying in the pathway, her checked apron flapping, its starchy stiffness showing limp dark spots where the raindrops splashed.

“She’s only shocked. She’s all right–stop that screaming! Good God, girl, where’s your nerve?”

His severity steadied her. Mary Hope stopped screaming, both hands held tightly over her mouth. Lance was already on his way to the house, carrying Mother Douglas like a sleeping child in his arms. And the rain came, a white curtain of water that drenched them to the skin in the first ten seconds.

On the bed where Aleck Douglas had stared at the ceiling, and raved, and died, Lance laid her carefully as though he feared to waken her. He tore open the faded calico dress at the throat, laid his ear upon her heart.

“She’s alive, sweetheart,” he said hearteningly. “It’s only a shock. Bring a basin of water. We’ll have her all right in no time.”

He worked over the old woman, using all the means he could remember or invent, while the house shook with the fury of the wind, and the lightning dazzled them and the rain drummed incessantly on the roof. Mary Hope watched him, her eyes wide, her lips refusing to form any words. For her own sake he sent her on many little errands, kept her busy at useless little tasks. After what seemed an interminable time he stood looking down at the gently heaving breast.

“How game is my girl?” he asked, taking Mary Hope in his arms. “Is she game enough to stay here while Lance goes for a doctor? It won’t be long–” He paused while he made a rapid mental calculation of the distance, and of what a horse may endure. “Three hours. Will my girl be brave enough to stay here three hours? I’ll call the man who was mowing–if I can find him. But that will take minutes. Three hours–and you won’t weaken, will you, dear?”

Mary Hope leaned against him, clutched him, shivered at the crashing thunder. “It’s awful,” she moaned. “I’m afraid you might be hit–”

“Afraid? A Douglas not as game as a Lorrigan?” He shook her, lifted his eyebrows at her, pursed his lips at her, shook her again and kissed her. “I can’t love a girl who’s afraid of thunder. Your mother’s all right, you know. We saw where that bolt struck–fifty yards, almost, from where she was. She got a shock, that’s all. But we’ll have a doctor here and make him take the responsibility. And I’ll be back in three hours, and you’re going to be game–just as game as you’ve always been.”

He pulled his hat down over his eyes, buttoned his wet coat to the chin, laid his hand for a minute over the faintly pulsating heart of Mother Douglas, swept Mary Hope up in his arms and kissed her again, pulled open the door and was gone.

Through a rain-blurred window Mary Hope saw him run to the stable, lead out Coaley who had taken refuge there, vault into the saddle without troubling about the stirrup, and come thundering back past the house and out of the gate, his head bent to the storm.

She looked at the clock. Three hours? He could never do it in three hours! She went back and knelt beside the bed, and prayed as her mother had taught her to pray. And not all of her petition was for her mother. Every lightning flash, every crack, every distant boom of the thunder made her cringe. Lance–Lance was out in the storm, at the mercy of its terrible sword-thrusts that seemed to smite even the innocent. Her mother–even her own mother, who had held unswervingly to her faith–even she had been struck down!

A mile down the road Lance was leaning forward, encouraging Coaley to more speed, because there the trail ran level and fairly free from rocks. Later, he pulled the horse down to a walk, breathing him up a hill; let him trot down the slope beyond, picked him into a swift gallop when they again struck the level. He gauged, with coldblooded attention to certain rough miles in the journey, just how swiftly Coaley could cover ground and live. He knew horses. He knew Coaley, and he knew that never yet had Coaley been pushed to the actual limit of his endurance. But the girl Lance loved–ah, it was a Lorrigan who loved!–was back there alone, and she would be counting the minutes. It might be that he might return to find her weeping over her dead. So Lance counted miles and a horse’s strength, and bent to the storm and rode.

Ten minutes past the hour, and he was snapping orders to the telegraph operator. The storm, happily, had swept on down the canyon and had given Jumpoff little more than a wetting and a few lightning flashes.

“And order out a special engine and coach,–what do I care what it will cost? I’ll pay. Wire your Lava chief that the money is here. Send the doctor on ahead of the regular train–can’t wait for that.”

He had the Lorrigan habit of carrying a good deal of money on his person, and he counted out banknotes until the operator lifted his hand and said it was enough. He slammed out, then, mounted and rode to a livery stable and gave orders there.

“–And I’ll buy the damn team, so kill ’em if you have to. Only get the doctor out there.” He was in the saddle and gone again before the stableman had recovered from his sag-jawed astonishment.

“Guess there’s something in that talk of him and the Douglas girl,” the stableman gossiped to a friend while he harnessed his swiftest team.

In ten minutes under the three hours Lance stopped at the house, went in and saw that Mary Hope was still being game, and was very glad to be in his arms, and that Mother Douglas was alive and staring up at the ceiling, her face set in a deadly kind of calm.

“She moves her eyes to me, sometimes–she’s been awake for almost an hour. But she hasn’t moved–” Her voice broke.

“It’s all right–the doctor is on his way. And I’m here, sweetheart–you won’t be alone again. Where’s that man of yours? I’ll send him over with a note to Belle. She’ll come–she’s a wonder with sick folks.”

“Mother–I’m afraid mother wouldn’t let her–she’s that set!”

Lance looked at the corpse-like figure with the wide-open eyes and a flicker of the lids now and then to show that she was alive, and swallowed a lump in his throat. Mother Douglas would probably not know who was with her, he thought.

Coaley, the proud-spirited, shambled slowly to the stable, his head drooping, his eyes dulled with exhaustion. He had done his part. Lance rubbed him down, blanketed him, working swiftly, his thoughts with Mary Hope and her love and her fresh grief. He found Hugh, scribbled a note to Belle and got him started on Jamie.

Mother Douglas moved her eyes, stared at him sharply when he went to her. But she did not speak, did not move a muscle of her face. The heart of Lance went heavy, but he could smile still at Mary Hope and tell her that it was all right, and that the doctor ought to be there in an hour or so, and that Belle would come, and that he loved her, loved her, loved her.