The Mistress of Bonaventure

"Supposing the Bonaventure brand had not been on that draft, and Lane's men retained possession, what would ye have done?" was the shrewd rejoinder; and Lucille smiled as she looked steadily at the speaker.

"I really think, sergeant, that I should have ridden over them."

Mackay seemed to struggle with some natural feeling; but the silent rancher smote the table. "By the Lord, you would, and I'd have given five hundred dollars to go through beside you!" he said.

"Ye are quite old enough to ken better," said Mackay sententiously; and the rancher squared his shoulders as he answered:

"I'm as good as any two of your troopers yet, and was never run into a cattle corral. When I'm old enough to be useless I'll join the police."

"What were ye meaning?" asked the sergeant.

Gordon laughed. "Just that, for a tired man, it's a nice soft berth. You take your money and as much care as you can that you never turn up until the trouble's over!"

Before Mackay could retort, Lucille, smiling, raised her hand. "I think you should both know better, and I want you to tell me, sergeant, what will be the end of this. Surely nobody has any right to drive off cattle and horses that don't belong to him?"

Mackay looked somewhat troubled, and one could guess that while eager to please the fair questioner, he shrank with official caution from committing himself. "It's not my part to express an opinion on points that puzzle some lawyers," he said. "Still, I might tell ye that it will cost one man his position. Human nature's aye deceitful, Miss Haldane, and if Rancher Ormesby prosecuted them it would be just two or three men's word against a dozen. Forby, they might make out illegal resistance against him!"

"Sergeant," said Lucille Haldane, looking at him severely, "dare you tell me that you would not take the word of three ranchers against the oath of a dozen such men as Lane?"

Mackay smiled, though he answered dryly: "They're both hard to manage, and ungrateful for their benefits; but maybe I would. Still, I am, ye see, neither judge nor jury. Would ye prefer a charge against them, Ormesby?"

I was willing enough to do so, but had already reflected. Every moment of my time was needed, the nearest seat of justice was far away, and it would be only helping Lane if I wasted days attempting to substantiate a charge. I also surmised by his prompt disappearance when the fracas became serious that it would be very difficult to implicate my enemy, even if he did not turn the tables on me. Boone, when I looked at him, made a just perceptible negative movement with his head.

"I must leave this affair to the discretion of the police," I said. "Several of Lane's friends have good cause to be sorry for themselves already, and it is hardly likely his action will be repeated."

Mackay said nothing further, and shortly afterwards Lucille said she must take her departure. Sally stood smiling in the doorway while the riders of Bonaventure did her homage, and those whose compliments did not please her suffered for their clumsiness. When I rode out with Lucille Haldane there was a lifting of wide hats, and the sergeant, sitting upright in his saddle, saluted her as we passed with several splendid horsemen riding on each side.

I afterwards heard that Sally said to him mischievously: "I guess you men don't quite know everything. How long did it take you to break your troopers in? Yonder's a slip of a girl who knows nothing of discipline or drill, and there's not a man in all that outfit wouldn't ride right into the place where bad policemen go if she told him to. As good as your troopers, aren't they? What are you thinking now?"

The sergeant followed her pointing hand, and, as it happened, Lucille and I were just passing beyond the rise riding close together side by side. Mackay looked steadily after us, and doubtless noticed that Lucille rode very well. "I would not blame them. I'm just thinking I'm sorry for Corporal Cotton," he said.

Sally looked away across the prairie, and, turning, saw a faint smile fade out of the sergeant's face. "What do you mean? Can't you ever talk straight like a sensible man?" she asked.

"The corporal's young, an' needs considerable convincing," was the dry answer.

When we dipped beyond the rise I turned to Lucille Haldane. "What did you think of Sally? She is a stanch ally, but not always effusive to strangers," I said.

I could not at the moment understand Lucille Haldane's expression. The question was very simple, but the girl showed a trace of confusion, and was apparently troubled as to how she should frame the answer. This did not, however, last long, and when she raised her eyes to mine there was in them the same look of confidence there had been when she said, "I believe in you." It was very pleasant to see.

"I think a great deal of her, and must repeat what I said already. You have very loyal friends. Miss Steel told me at length how kind you had been to her and her brother, and I think they will fully repay you."

My wits must have been sharpened, for I understood, and blessed both Sally and the speaker. If Lucille Haldane, being slow to think evil, had faith in those she knew, it was possible she was glad of proof to justify the confidence, and Sally must have furnished it.

"They have done so already," I said.

There was always something very winning about my companion, but she had never appeared so desirable as she did just then. The day was drawing towards its close, and the light in the west called up the warm coloring that the wind and sun had brought into her face and showed each grace of the slight figure silhouetted against it. The former was, perhaps, not striking at first sight, though, with its setting of ruddy gold, and its hazel eyes filled with swift changes, it was pretty enough; but its charm grew upon one, and I noticed that when she patted the horse's neck the dumb beast moved as though it loved her. There was nothing of the Amazon about its rider except her courage.

"I have heard a good deal about your enemy and yourself of late, but there are several points that puzzle me, and, though I know you have his sympathies, father is not communicative," she said. "For instance, if you do not resent the allusion, he could with so little trouble have made a difference in the result of your sale."

"How could that be?" I asked, merely to see how far the speaker's interest in my affairs had carried her, and she answered: "Even if there had been nothing we needed at Bonaventure he could have made the others pay fair prices for all they bought. I cannot understand why he said it was better not to do so."

I also failed to understand; but a light broke in upon me. "Did you suggest that he should?" I asked, and the girl answered with some reluctance: "Yes; was it not natural that I should?"

"No one who knew you could doubt it," I said; and Lucille Haldane presently dismissed me. I sat still and watched her and her escort diminish across the long levels, and then rode slowly back towards Crane Valley. Remembering Haldane's mention of a promise, the news that it was his younger daughter who sent him to my assistance brought at first a shock of disappointment. I had already convinced myself that Beatrice Haldane must remain very far beyond my reach, but the thought that she had remembered me and sent what help she could had been comforting, nevertheless. Now it seemed that she had forgotten, and that that consolation must be abandoned, too. And yet the disappointment was not so crushing but that I could bear it with the rest. What might have been had passed beyond the limits of possibility, and there was nothing in the future to look forward to except a struggle against poverty and the wiles of my enemy.

Steel took my horse when I rode up to the house, and it was a coincidence that his first remark should be: "We beat him badly this time and he'll lie low a while. Then I guess you'll want both eyes open when he tries his luck again."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE VIGIL-KEEPER

It was a clear starlit night when I rode across a tract of the Assiniboian prairie, some two hundred miles east of Crane Valley. A half-moon hung in the cloudless ether, and the endless levels, lying very silent under its pale radiance, seemed to roll away into infinity. They had no boundary, for the blueness above them melted imperceptibly through neutral gradations into the earth below, which, gathering strength of tone, stretched back again to the center of the lower circle a vast sweep of silvery gray.

There was absolute stillness, not even a grass blade moved; but the air was filled with the presage of summer, and the softness of the carpet, which returned no sound beneath the horse's feet, had its significance. That sod had been bleached by wind-packed snow and bound into iron hardness by months of arctic frost. Bird and beast had left it, and the waste had lain empty under the coldness of death; but life had once more conquered, and the earth was green again. Even among the almost unlettered born upon it there are few men impervious to the influence of the prairie on such a night; and in days not long gone by the half-breed voyageurs told strange stories of visions seen on it during the lonely journeys they made for the great fur-trading company. Its vastness and its emptiness impresses the human atom who becomes conscious of an indefinite awe or is uplifted by an exaltation which vanishes with the dawn, for there are times when, through the silence of measureless spaces, man's spirit rises into partial touch with the greater things unseen.

My errand was prosaic enough – merely to buy cattle for Haldane and others on a sliding-scale arrangement. I could see a possibility of some small financial benefit, and that being so had reluctantly left Crane Valley, where I was badly needed, because the need of money was even greater. Also, as time was precious, I had decided to travel all night instead of spending it as a guest of the last farmer with whom I bargained. I was at that time neither very imaginative nor oversentimental; but the spell of the prairie was stronger than my will, and, yielding to it, I rode dreamily, so it seemed, beyond the reach of petty troubles and the clamor of our sordid strife into a shadowy land of peace which, defying the centuries, had retained unchanged its solemn stillness. The stars alone sufficed to call up the fancy, for there being neither visible heavens nor palpable atmosphere, only a blue transparency, the eye could follow the twinkling points of flame far backwards from one to another through the unknown spaces beyond our little globe. Nothing seemed impossible on such a night, and only the touch of the bridle and the faint jingle of metal material.

It was in this mood that I became conscious of a shadow object near the foot of a rise. It did not seem a natural portion of the prairie, and when I had covered some distance it resolved itself into a horse and a dismounted man. His broad hat hung low in his hand, his head was bent, and he stood so intent that I had almost ridden up to him before he turned and noticed me. Then, as I checked my horse, I saw that it was Boone.

"What has brought you here?" I asked.

"That I cannot exactly tell you when we know so little of the influences about us on such a night as this. It is at least one stage of a pilgrimage I must make," he said.

Had this answer been given me in the sunlight I should have doubted the speaker's mental balance, but one sets up a new standard of sanity on the starlit prairie on a night of spring, and I saw only that the spell was also upon him. He held a great bunch of lilies (which do not grow on the bare Western levels) in one hand, and his face was changed. Even in Boone's reckless humor there had been a sardonic vein which sometimes added a sting to the jest, and I knew what the shadow was that accounted for his fits of silent grimness. Now he seemed strangely calm, but rather reverent than sad.

"I cannot understand you," I said.

"No?" he answered quietly. "How soon you have forgotten; but you helped me once. Come, and I will show you."

He tethered his horse to an iron peg, beckoned me to do the same, and then, moving forward until we stood on the highest of the rise, pointed to something that rose darkly from the grass. Then I remembered, and swung my hat to my knee, as my eyes rested on a little wooden cross. Following the hand he stretched out, I could read the rude letters cut on it – "Helen Boone."

He stooped, and, I fancied with some surprise, lifted a glass vessel from beneath a handful of withered stalks. He shook them out gently, laid the fresh blossoms in their place, and a faint fragrance rose like incense through the coolness of the dew. Then he turned, and I followed him to where we had left the horses. "There are still kind souls on this earth, and one of them placed that vessel under the last flowers I left. You have a partial answer to your question now."

I bent my head, and seeing that he was not averse to speech, said quietly: "You come here sometimes? It is a long journey."

"Yes," was the answer; and Boone's voice vibrated. "She who sleeps there gave up a life of luxury for me; and is a three-hundred-mile journey too much to make, or a summer night too long to watch beside her? I am drawn here, and there are times when one wonders if it is possible for us to rise into partial communion with those who have passed into the darkness before us."

"It is all," I answered gravely, "a mystery to me. Can you conceive such a possibility?"

"Not in any tangible shape to such as I, but this at least I know. In spite of the destruction of the mortal clay, when I can see my way no further, and lose courage in my task, fresh strength comes to me after a night spent here."

"Your task?" I said. "I guessed that there was a motive behind your wanderings."

"There is one," and Boone's voice rose to its natural level. "The wagon journeys suit it well. Had Lane ruined me alone I should have tried to pay my forfeit for inexperience and the risk I took gracefully; but when I saw the woman, who had lain down so much for me, fading day by day that he might add to his power of oppressing others the money which would have saved her life, the case was different. The last part he played in the pitiful drama was that of murderer, and the loss he inflicted on me one that could never be forgiven."

"And you are waiting revenge?" I asked.

"No." Boone looked back towards the crest of the rise. "At first I did so, but it is justice that prompts me now. I have a full share of human passions, and once I lay in wait for him with a rifle – my throat parched and a fire of torment in my heart; but when he passed at midnight within ten paces I held my hand and let him go. Perhaps it was because I could not take the life of even that venomous creature in cold blood, and feared he would not face me. Perhaps another will was stronger than my own, for, with every purpose strained against what seemed weakness, it was borne in on me that I could not force him to stand with a weapon, and that I dare not kill him groveling. Then the power went out of me, and I let him go. Yet I have twice lain long hours in hot sand under a deadly rifle fire, Ormesby. There are many mysteries, and as yet it is very little that we know."