Part 17 (1/2)

But the girl did not stir. Had empires depended upon it that moment, she could not have complied. Could she have cried, as the chin had at first presaged, she might perhaps have done so; but she was beyond the reach of tears now. The complete meaning of the scene had come to her at last, the realisation of personal menace; and a fear such as she had never before known, gripped her relentlessly. She could hear, hear every word; but her muscles refused to act. She merely stood there, the old telescope satchel she carried gripped tight in her hand, her great eyes, wide and soft as those of a wild thing, staring out into the now rapidly acc.u.mulating rabble; merely stared and waited.

”Bess,” repeated the persuading voice, ”come, please. Don't stand there, come.”

At last the girl seemed to hear, to understand. Hesitatingly, with trembling steps, she came a pace forward, and another; then of a sudden she gave a little cry and her free hand lifted defensively. But she was not quick enough, had seen too late; and that instant came the _denouement._ A second turnip, decayed like its predecessor, aimed likewise unerringly, caught her fair in the mouth, spattered, and broke into fragments that fell to the car steps. Following, swift as rain after a thunderclap, a spurt of blood came to her lips and trickled down her face.

Simultaneously the crowd went silent; silent as the still prairie about them, awed irresistibly by the thing they had themselves wittingly or unwittingly done. Save one, not a human being stirred. That one, no need to tell whom, transformed visibly; transformed as they had never seen a human being alter before. With not a step, but a bound, he was himself on the platform of the coach; the girl, protected behind him, hid from sight. She was sobbing now; sobbing tumultuously, hysterically. In the stillness every listening ear on the platform could hear distinctly. For an instant after he had reached her the Indian stood so, his left arm about her, his back toward them. He did not say a word, he did not move.

For the first time in his life he dared not. He did not see red that moment, this man; he saw black--black as prairie loam. Every savage instinct in his brain was clamouring for freedom, clamouring until his free hand was clenched tight to keep it from the bulging holster behind his right hip. Before this instant, when they were baiting him alone, it was nothing, he could forgive; but now--now--He stared away from them, stared up into the smiling, sarcastic prairie sky; but, listening, they, who almost with fascination watched, could hear beneath the catch of the girl's sobs the sound of his breathing.

Ever at climaxes time seems suspended. Whether it was a second or a minute he stood there so, they who watched could never tell. What they did know was that at last he turned, stood facing them. All their lives they had seen pa.s.sion, seen it in every phase, seen it until it was commonplace. It was in the very air of the frontier, to be expected, life of the life; but as this man s.h.i.+fted they saw a kind of which they had never dreamed. For How Landor was master of himself again, master, as well--they knew it, every man and youth who saw,--of them. For another indefinitely long deathly silent s.p.a.ce he merely looked at them; looked eye to eye, individual by individual, into every face within the surrounding semi-circle. Once before another man, a drunken cowman, had seen that identical look. Now not one but a score saw it, felt a terrible ice-cold menace creep from his brain into their brains. Even yet he did not speak, did not make a sound; nor did they. Explain it as you will, he did this thing. Another thing he did as well; and that was the end. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped to the platform and held out his hand. Obediently the girl followed. She was not crying now. Her eyes were red and a drop of blood came now and then to her lips; but she had grown wonderfully quiet all at once, wonderfully calm--almost as much so as the man. Deliberately as he had stepped down into the spectators'

midst, the Indian took the old telescope from the girl's hand and, she following by his side, moved a step forward. He did not touch her again nor did she him. They merely moved ahead toward the sidewalk that led up the single street; moved deliberately, leisurely, as though they were alone. Not around the crowd, but straight through it they pa.s.sed; through a lane that opened as by magic as they went, and as by magic closed behind them, until they were within a solid human square. But of all the a.s.sembled spectators that day, an aggregation irresponsible, unchivalrous as no other rabble on earth--a mob of the frontier,--not one spoke to challenge their action, not one attempted to bar their way.

The complete length of the platform they went so, turned the corner by the station--and, simultaneously, the crowd disappeared from view, hid by the building itself. Then in sudden reaction, the girl weakened.

Irresistibly she caught at the man's arm, held it fast.

”Oh, How! How!” she trembled, ”is it to be always like this with you and me? Is it to be always, everywhere, so?”

But the man said never a word.

Two hours had pa.s.sed. The girl had breakfasted. A wood fire crackled cheerfully in the sheet iron heater of the tiny room where the same two people sat alone. Already the world had taken on a different aspect. Not that Elizabeth Landor had forgotten that recent incident at the depot.

She would never forget it. It had merely pa.s.sed into temporary abeyance, taken its proper place in the eternal scheme of things.

Another consideration, paramount, all-compelling, had inevitably crowded it from the stage. It was this consideration that had held her silent far longer than was normal. It was its overshadowing influence that at last prompted speech.

”How did you know I was coming to-day?” she queried suddenly.

”How did _you_ know I would be at the train to meet you?” echoed a voice.

The girl did not answer, did not pursue the subject.

”Tell me of Aunt Mary, please,” she digressed. ”I felt somehow when you wrote as if I--I--” A swiftly gathered shower called a halt. Tear drops, ever so near, stood in her eyes. ”Please tell me,” she completed.

The man told her. It did not take long. As of her prosaic life, so there was little to record of the death of Mary Landor. ”It was best that you were away,” he ended. ”It was best for her that she went when she did.”

”You think so, How, honestly?” No affectation in that anxious query.

”You think I didn't do wrong in leaving as I did?”

”No, you did no wrong, Bess.” A pause. ”You could not.”

A moment the girl sat looking at him; in wonder and something more.

”I believe you knew all the time Aunt Mary would--go while I was away,” she said suddenly, tensely. ”I believe you helped me away on purpose.”

No answer.

”Tell me, How. I want to know.”

”I thought so, Bess,” simply.

For a long time the girl sat so; silent, marvelling. A new understanding of this solitary human stole over her, an appreciation that drowned the sadness of a moment ago. ”How you must care for me,” she voiced almost unconsciously. ”How you must care for me!”