The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

you for all that abuse!" cried Lispenard. He stared at her for several moments. "Believe you would fire, at that. Spitfire is the right designation. But you can be tamed, my dear, and I'm the man to do it."

      "Get out of the path," she insisted. "Go around me and or down the trail. Don't ever come near my cabin again. If I see you I'll shoot."

      She saw a sudden widening of his bold eyes. "I smell rat," he muttered. "I believe I've stumbled onto something. By Gad, I know I have! Who is hiding behind your petticoats? What's all those blankets for—and the grub? You'd better be a little nice to me."

      "Must I stand and take all that abuse!" stormed the girl. "How brave you are to be cruel to a woman, how very brave! You are yellow clear through to the bone, Mr. Lispenard. I doubt if a dog would walk beside you!" There was a click of the gun as she cocked it. Her voice shook. "Go around me and down the trail! If ever you come again, I'll kill you!"

      He said nothing for a time, but he obeyed the order, circling back of a tree and stepping some yards away. She turned, watching for trickery. His mocking voice floated through the shadows. "Don't protest your virtue too much, my dear. You can ill afford it."

      She never stirred until the sound of his retreat was lost somewhere in the main trail. Then she turned up the slope with a heavy heart, came to the cabin, and let herself inside. It was growing darker, and Tom had no word of welcome for her. She dropped the barrier into its sockets with a quick rise of alarm and groped over to hang the blanket across the window again. The lamp wick flared to a match; Gillette was asleep, his hand curled around the gun.

      It seemed to her that some special providence watched over this man. How could it be otherwise when Lispenard stood within a few yards of the cabin yet had not entered? And should she tell Tom of the other man's presence? She debated this silently. He needed to know it for his own safety, yet the knowledge would only add another worry to an already long list. She was strong—she could fight this thing out until Tom stood ready to take it over. She wouldn't tell him until he walked again.

      After Tom Gillette discovered he was a sick man and a woefully weak man he made no more attempts to force the recovery. There was a hard wisdom in him. He knew when to fight, and he knew when to ride with the current, so he mustered his patience and for better than a week he rested flat on his back, saying very little; alternately sleeping and drowsing along with his eyes half closed. During these latter hours he seemed to be in a profound study, staring straight up to the ceiling. These were sombre hours, the girl knew, and she respected his silences. That was the way he had been fashioned, he was no hand to talk; as for herself, she had little enough to say now that the crisis was past. What went on in her heart, what was stored there, would never come out, and she was content that it was to be thus. But on occasions she turned to find him looking at her so quietly and so steadily that a queer runner of emotion swept though her and the quickened tempo of her heart sent the telltale blood to her cheeks. Time and again she saw the very words trembling on his lips, yet he never spoke them. It puzzled her, as the days went on, and presently a doubt and a dread came to her. What was he thinking? A man's code was sometimes unfathomable, sometimes judgments were passed in secret by that code, and then never again were things the same. What was he thinking?

      But she was soon to find out. For, one day in the second week, he turned toward her, wide awake and with an unusual intentness on his face. "Come over here, Lorena."

      She came beside him. "Yes?"

      "Take hold of my hand. Squeeze it as tight as you can."

      She obeyed, wondering. Gillette seemed to be experimenting with himself. "Fine. Now let me see what I can do." So she let her fingers grow limp while his own slowly closed in, then relaxed. He rested a moment. "I reckon I've been a pretty good Indian—played 'possum to help old lady Nature. You go outside a minute, Lorena girl."

      "Now, Tom..."

      He barely smiled. "Oh, I'm not going to be foolish. But a lot depends on this."

      She went out and started a few yards down the trail. Presently she heard him calling, and she whipped around and ran back inside. He was on his feet, the blanket wrapped around him, supported by nothing at all save his own strength. And he was grinning wanly, he was triumphant. "I'm sound. By Joe, I'm sound."

      "Oh, Tom, that wasn't necessary yet. You mustn't overdo."

      "I had to find out," said he, quite grim. Then he sat back on the bed and rolled himself in. "Didn't I tell you a lot depended on it? Listen, is there any chance for me?"

      She turned away from him and walked toward the window. The width of the room was athwart them, and to the man it appeared the width of the universe stretched between. He watched her and, as always, he was immeasurably stirred by the clear oval of her face and the round sturdiness of her body. She was straightforward, she never traded with him, and sometimes he had seen a light in her eyes that left him humble. At that moment he thought he never had seen a woman so piquant, so alluring and lovely.

      "I am yours, Tom."

      Just that. Spoken slow and just above a whisper. Gillette gripped his fists together, his whole face tightened as if in pain. "Lorena girl, you will never want, you will never regret it. I'd sweep this land..."

      "Oh, Tom, I'm not sure I'll ever be any help to you! What am I—what do I know—what can I do!"

      "Stop that! There's no man fit for you. Not one! But I'll try—come over here, Lorena. I'm sound of body, anyhow. That's why I had to find out before asking you."

      "What difference would that have made to me?" she cried.

      "Maybe none, to you. But everything to me. By Joe, but it's a fine day outside. I'd like to be riding—I'd like to warble." He was smiling as she put her arm across his shoulder. And when they looked to each other there was a kindling and a flashing of some deep flame.

      "Too much has passed between us for it to end any other way," he muttered.

      "I am yours, Tom," she repeated.

      It was an hour or so later before she reminded him there was no food in the cabin. There was another trip to town, and the sooner it was done the better. She got her basket and brought him his gun. This time his fingers closed about it firmly. "I can handle the blamed thing now. Lord, but I hate to see you doing all this fetch-and-carry for me."

      "Why? Won't I be doing it the rest of my life?" She saw his quick frown of disavowal and a swift, rippling laugh rang across the small room. "Of course! I want to do it—every woman someday hopes to do it. And I'm strong—nothing can hurt me."

      "I'll make it so you'll never have to lift as much as your little finger," he promised.

      She smiled and went out and down the trail. There was a man speaking—so direct and practical in some things, so thoroughly impractical in others. She was only just across the border of womanhood, yet she saw ahead of her with that instinctive clarity of her sex. Men promised to make life easy and believed they had the power of doing it. Yet life was not that way. There would always be pain and tragedy and bitterness in the years, along with the blessings. That was life. But she was strong, and the future held no terrors. For she had the man she wanted, she had everything she wanted, and she stood ready to pay for her bargain.

      The day was fresh and clear; the sun shot through the tree lanes and sparkled on the creek below. She thought she never had seen a day so wonderful, nor had the joy of living ever surged through her so powerfully as on this morning. She forgot Lispenard and San Saba and all the unravelled business yet hanging over her head. So she walked down the slope, humming an old trail song to herself, and came into Deadwood.

      The town seemed unusually active for a morning, the streets were filled, and a kind of holiday air permeated the place. American flags draped the hotel, and a great banner bearing the single word "welcome" stretched across the thoroughfare. She saw the prominent men of the camp gathered at the far end, all dressed to the fashion and Deadwood's band stood near them, instruments slung up to play. Turning into the restaurant, Lorena came across the proprietor and asked him what it was all about.

      "Billy Costaine's comin'," said the proprietor, as if