The Night Riders Page 26

Tresler’s alarm abated at once; he laughed softly and leant forward and kissed her.

  “Our future—our little home. Eh, dearest?” he suggested tenderly.

  She returned his embrace and made a pitiful attempt to smile back into the eyes which looked so eagerly into hers. And now, for the first time, her lover began to understand that there really was something amiss with her. It was that look, so wistful, so appealing, that roused his apprehension. He pressed her to tell him her trouble, until, for sheer misery, she could keep it from him no longer.

  “It’s nothing,” she faltered, with trembling lips.

  Watching her face with a lover’s jealousy he kept silence, for he knew that her first words were only her woman’s preliminary to something she considered serious.

  “Jack,” she said presently, settling all her attention upon her work, “you’ve never asked me anything about myself. Isn’t that unusual? Perhaps you are not interested, or perhaps”—her head bent lower over her work—“you, with your generous heart, are ready to take me on trust. However,” she went on, before he could interrupt her, “I intend to tell you what you refuse to ask. No,” as he leant forward and kissed her again, “now sit up and light your pipe. There are to be no interruptions like that.”

  She smiled wistfully and gently pushed him back into his chair.

  “Now,” she began, as he settled himself to listen, “I must go back such a long, long way. Before I was born. Father was a sea captain then. First the captain of a whaler, afterward he bought a ship of his own and traded round the East Indies. He often used to talk of those days, not because he had any desire to tell me of them, but it seemed to relieve him when he was in a bad temper. I don’t know what his trade was, but I think it was of an exciting nature. He often spoke of the risks, which, he said, were amply compensated by the money he made.” Tresler smiled gravely. “And father must have made a lot of money at that time, for he married mother, bought himself a fine house and lands just outside Kingston, in Jamaica, and, I believe, he kept a whole army of black servants. Yes, and he has told me, not once, but a hundred times, that he dates all his misfortunes from the day he married my mother, which always seems unfair to her anyway. Somehow I can never think of father as ever having been a kind man, and I’ve no doubt that poor mother had anything but an easy time of it with him. However, it is not for me to criticize.” She paused, but went on almost immediately. “Let me see, it was directly after the honeymoon that he went away on his last trading trip. He was to call at Java. Jake was his mate, you know, and they were expecting to return in six months’ time with a rich harvest of what he calls ‘Black Ivory.’ I think it was some native manufacture, because he had to call at the native villages. He told me so. But the trip was abandoned after three weeks at sea. Father was stricken down with yellow fever. And from that day to this he has never seen the light of day.”

  The girl pushed her work aside and went on drearily.

  “When he recovered from the fever he was brought home, as he said himself, ‘a blind hulk.’ Mother nursed him back to health and strength, but she could not restore his sight. I am telling you these things just as I have gleaned them from him at such moments as he chose to be communicative. I imagine, too, from the little things he sometimes let fall when he was angry, that all this time he lived in a state of impotent fury against all the world, against God, but particularly against the one person to whom he should have been most grateful—mother. All his friends deserted him in consequence of his bitter temper—all, that is, except Jake. At last in desperation, he conceived the idea of going to Europe. At first mother was going with him, but though he was well able to afford the additional expense he begrudged it, and, changing his mind, decided to go alone. He sold his ship, settled his affairs, and went off, and for three years he traveled round Europe, visiting every eye-doctor of note in all the big capitals. But it was all no good, and he returned even more soured than he went away. It was during his absence that I was born.”

  Again Diane paused. This time it was some moments before she proceeded.

  “To add to his troubles,” she at last resumed, in a low tone, “mother was seriously ill when he got back, and, the day of his return, died in his presence. After that, whatever his disposition was before, it seems to have become a thousand times worse. And when he is angry now he takes a painful delight in discussing the hatred and abhorrence all the people of Kingston held him in, and the hatred and abhorrence he returns to mankind in general. By his own accounts he must have been terrible. However, this has nothing to do with our history. Personally, I remember nothing but this ranch, but I understand that he tried to resume his old trade in the Indies. For some reason this failed him; trouble occurred, and he gave it up for good, and came out to this country and settled here. Again, to quote his words, ‘away from men and things that drove him distracted.’ That,” she finished up, “is a brief sketch of our history.”

  “And just such a story as I should imagine your father had behind him. A most unhappy one,” Tresler observed quietly. But he was marveling at the innocence of this child who failed to realize the meaning of “black ivory.”

  For a little while there was a silence between them, and both sat staring out of the window. At last Diane turned, and when she spoke again there was an ominous quivering of the lips.

  “Jack,” she said, “I have not told you this without a purpose.”

  “No, I gathered that, dear,” he returned. “And this profound purpose?” he questioned, smiling.

  Her answer was a long time in coming. What she had to do was so hard.

  “Father doesn’t like you,” she said at last in desperation.

  Tresler put his pipe aside.

  “It doesn’t seem to me he likes anybody very much, unless it’s Jake. And I wouldn’t bet a pile on the affection between them.”

  “He likes Jake better than anybody else. At least he trusts him.”

  “Which is a fair equivalent in his case. But what makes you think he dislikes me more than most people?”

  “You remember that night in the kitchen, when you asked me to——”

  “Marry? Yes. Could I ever forget it?”

  Tresler had taken possession of one of the small hands lying in the girl’s lap, but she gently withdrew it.

  “I was weeping, and—and you saw the bruises on my arms. Father disapproved of my talking to you——”

  “Ah! I understand.” And he added, under his breath, “The brute!”

  “He says I must give you up.”

  Tresler was looking straight before him at the window. Now he turned slowly and faced her. His expression conveyed nothing.

  “And you?”

  “Oh, it is so hard!” Diane burst out, in distress. “And you make it harder. Yes,” she went on miserably, “I have to give you up. I must not marry you—dare not——”

  “Dare not?”

  The question came without the movement of a muscle.

  “Yes, he says so. Oh, don’t you see? He is blind, and I—I am his only—oh, what am I saying?”

  Tresler shook his head.

  “I’m afraid you are saying a lot of—nonsense, little woman. And what is more, it is a lot of nonsense I am not going to take seriously. Do I understand that you are going to throw me over simply because he tells you to?”

  “Not only because of that.”

  “Who told him about us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Never mind. Perhaps I can guess. You have grown tired of me already?”

  “You know I haven’t, Jack.”

  Diane put out a hand and gently laid it on one of his. But his remained unresponsive. This sudden awakening from his dream of love had more than startled him. It had left him feeling resentful against somebody or something; at present he was not sure who or what. But he meant to have it out, cost what it might.

  “That’s all right, then,” he said. “Now, tell me this other reason.” Suddenly he leant forward and lo
oked down into her eyes. His hands, now thin and delicate, held hers tightly in a passionate clasp, and his face was alight with the truth and sincerity of his love. “Remember,” he said, “this is no child’s play, Danny. I am not the man to give you up easily. I am weak, I know; but I’ve still got a fight in me, and so long as I am assured of your love, I swear nothing shall part us. I love you as I have never loved anybody in my life—and I just want only you. Now tell me this other reason, dear.”

  But Diane still hesitated. Her evident distress wrung her lover’s heart. He realized now that there was something very serious behind it all. He had never beheld anything so pitiful as the look with which she turned toward him, and further tried to put him off.

  “Father says you are to leave this house to-day. Afterward you will be turned off the ranch. It is only through the sheriff backing the doctor’s orders that you were not turned out of here before.”

  Tresler made no response for a moment. Then he burst out into a hard, mirthless laugh.

  “So!” he exclaimed, his laugh dying abruptly. “Listen to me. Your father can turn me out of this house—though I’ll save him that trouble—but he can’t turn me off this ranch. My residence here is bought and paid for for three years. The agreement is signed and sealed. No, no, let him try another bluff.” Then his manner changed to one of gentle persuasion. “But you have not come to the real reason, little one. Out with it. It is a bitter plum, I can tell. Something which makes you dread not only its consequences, but—something else. Tell it me, Danny. Whatever it is you may be sure of me. My love for you is unalterable. Believe me, nothing shall come between us.”

  His voice was infinitely tender, and its effect on Diane was to set two great tears rolling down her cheeks as she listened. He had driven her to a corner, and there was no escape. But even so she made one more effort to avoid her shameful disclosure.

  “Will—will you not take me at my word, Jack?” she asked imploringly.

  “Not in this, dearest,” he replied.

  He spoke inexorably, but with such a world of love in his voice that the long-pent tears came with a rush. He let her weep. He felt it would do her good. And, after a while, when her sobs had ceased, he urged her again.

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  “I——”

  The man waited with wonderful patience.

  “Oh, don’t—don’t make me!” she cried.

  “Yes, I must.”

  And at last her answer came in the faintest of whispers.

  “I—I—father is—is only my legal father. He was away three years. I was born three days before he returned.”

  “Well, well.” Tresler sat quite still for a moment while the simple girl sat cowering under the weight of her mother’s shame. Then he suddenly reached out and caught her in his arms. “Why, Danny,” he cried, pressing her to him, “I never felt so happy over anything in my life as the fact that Julian Marbolt is not your father.”

  “But the shame of it!” cried the girl, imagining that her lover had not fully understood.

  “Shame? Shame?” he cried, holding her still tighter in his arms. “Never let me hear that word on your lips again. You are the truest, sweetest, simplest child in the world. You are mine, Danny. My very own. And I tell you right here that I’ve won you and will hold you to my last dying day.”

  Now she was kneeling beside him with her face pillowed on his breast, sobbing in the joy of her relief and happiness. And Tresler kissed her softly, pressing his cheek many times against the silky curls that wreathed about her head. Then, after a while, he sat looking out of the window with a hard, unyielding stare. Weak as he was, he was ready to do battle with all his might for this child nestling so trustfully in his arms.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIX

  HOT UPON THE TRAIL

  The most welcome thing that had happened to the men on the ranch for many a long day was Tresler’s return to the bunkhouse. He was hailed with acclamation. Though he had found it hard to part with Diane under the doubtful circumstances, there was some compensation, certainly gratification, in the whole-hearted welcome of his rough comrades. It was not the effusion they displayed, but the deliberateness of their reception of him, that indexed their true feelings. Teddy Jinks refused to serve out the supper hash until Tresler had all he required. Lew Cawley washed out a plate for him, as a special favor; and Raw Harris, pessimist as he was, and who had a way of displaying the fact in all the little every-day matters of life, cleaned and sharpened a knife for him by prodding it up to the hilt in the hard-beaten earth, and cleaned the prongs of a fork with the edge of his buckskin shirt. But he could not thus outrage his principles without excusing himself, which he did, to the effect that he guessed “invalid fellers need onusual feedin’.” Jacob Smith, whose habit it was to take his evening meals seated at the foot of the upright log which served as part of the door casing, and which contact with his broad, buckskin-covered shoulders had polished till it shone resplendently, renounced his coveted position in the invalid’s favor. Tresler was a guest of honor, for whom, on this one occasion at least, nothing was too good. And in this position Arizona supported him, cursing the flies that fell into his friend’s pannikin of tea, and hooking them out with the point of his hash-besmeared knife as he sat on his log beside him. Joe, too, had come down specially to share the meal, but he, being a member of the household, was very small fry at the bunkhouse.

  And Tresler delighted in the kindness thus showered on him. The freedom from the sick-room did him good; the air was good to breathe, the plain, wholesome food was good; but most of all those bronzed, tough faces around him seemed to put new life and vigor into his enfeebled frame. He realized that it was high time that he was at work again.

  And there was lots for him to hear. Every man among them had something to add to the general hash of events, and in their usual way proceeded to ladle it out without regard for audience, contradicting, interrupting, cursing, until the unfortunate man who was the butt of their remarks found himself almost overpowered by the babel.

  At length Arizona drew them up with one of his sudden “yanks.”

  “Say,” he cried, his eyes glaring fiercely and embracing the whole party with a great, comprehensive roll, “you fellers is like a crowd o’ coyotes around a bone. I ’lows Tresler ain’t an a’mighty deal better’n a bone about now, but his lugs ain’t deef. Y’re jest a gorl-darned lot o’ oneddicated hoboes.”

  Which attack had the effect of reducing the pandemonium, but in no way suppressing the ardent spirits of the party. It acted as a challenge, which Jacob Smith promptly took up.

  “Say, boys,” he cried, “we’re goin’ to git eddication from Arizona!”

  His remark was followed by a derisive roar of laughter at Arizona’s expense. But the moment it had subsided the derided one shot out his retort.

  “Guess ther’s things and critturs down our country we don’t never figger to eddicate—them’s hogs.”

  “Fer the reason which they knows more’n you,” returned Jacob, in no way worried by the personality.

  The boys considered the point achieved by Jacob, and another laugh at Arizona’s expense went up. He had stumped the cowpuncher, who now entered the fight with wonderfully good-natured zest.

  “Say,” he observed, “I ain’t had a heap to do wi’ your folks, Jacob, but I’m guessin’ ef you’re talkin’ Gospel, things don’t run in your fam’ly.”

  “Call him a hog right out, Arizona,” put in Raw, lazily.

  “I ain’t callin’ Jacob no hog; et ’ud be a nasty trick—on the hog,” observed the ready-tongued man.

  “Hallo, Jacob!” cried Lew, as the laugh turned on the other man this time.

  But Arizona resented the interference, and rounded on him promptly.

  “Say, you passon feller, I ain’t heerd tell as it’s the ways o’ your country to butt in an’ boost folk on to a scrap. It’s gener’ly sed you’re mostly ready to do the scrappin’.”

 
; “Which means?” Lew grinned in his large way.

  “Wal, it mostly means—let’s hear from you fust hand.”

  “It’s not much use hearing from me on the subject of hogs. They aren’t great on ’em in my country. Besides, you seem quite at home with ’em.”

  Arizona sprang to his feet, and, walking over to the hulking form of the parson’s son, held his hand out.

  “Shake,” he said, with a grin that drew his parchment-like skin into fierce wrinkles; “we live in the same shack.”

  Lew laughed with the rest, and when it died down observed—

  “Look here, Arizona, when you get talking ‘hog’ you stand alone. The whole Northwest bows to you on that subject. Now go and sit down like a peaceable citizen, and remember that a man who is such a master in the craft of hog-raising, who has lived with ’em, bred ’em, fed on ’em, and whose mental vision is bounded by ’em, has no right to down inoffensive, untutored souls like ourselves. It isn’t generous.”

  Arizona stood. He looked at the man; then he glanced at each face around him and noted the smiles. One hand went up to his long, black hair and he scratched his head, while his wild eyes settled themselves on Tresler’s broadly grinning features. Suddenly he walked back to his seat, took up his dish of hash and continued his supper, making a final remark as he ate.

  “Langwidge? Gee! I pass.”

  And during the rest of the meal “hog” found no place. They discussed the topic of the day threadbare. The night-riders filled their thoughts to the exclusion of all else, and Tresler learned the details of their recent exploits, and the opinion of each man on the outrages. Even Teddy Jinks, youthful and only “slushy” as he was, was listened to, so absorbed were these men in their cattle world.

  “It’s my belief,” that reedy youth said, with profound finality, “they’re working fer a bust up. I’d gamble one o’ Arizona’s hogs to a junk o’ sow-belly ther’ ain’t no more of them rustlers around come the fall. Things is hot, an’ they’re goin’ to hit the trail, takin’ all they ken get right now.”