The Heart of Thunder Mountain

CHAPTER IV

THE HIGHEST BIDDER

Far up the road appeared a little cloud of dust with a black speck in its center.

A murmur ran through the crowd; a name was passed from mouth to mouth; and the men nearest Huntington began to edge away instinctively, leaving a larger and larger space clear around him and the three cow-punchers.

Marion too looked, and understood. She had not dismounted, but still sat her pony within ten feet of the outlaw, at the side of the roadway, in about the middle of which stood Huntington. With an effort she drew her eyes away from that ominous black spot in the distance, and turned toward Seth. A shiver ran through her body, but her cheeks burned, and there was a voice in her ears that shouted, “Tell him he’s a fool to anger me!” For a moment she was on the point of rushing upon Seth, and shrieking that warning into his face. But now it was too late.

Like all the others Huntington stood for a few seconds fascinated by that figure in the puff of dust. And for just those few seconds there was a certain unsteadiness in his attitude, irresolution in the black eyes beneath their bushy brows. But the blue-whiteness under the dark beard was not the pallor of fear, so called. Seth Huntington was as incapable of physical cowardice as he was of moral courage. He was not afraid of Philip Haig, but he was dreadfully afraid of being thought afraid of him. There was yet time to avoid a clash with Haig, to withdraw from an undertaking in which he knew he was wholly in the wrong. But he was not equal to that test of character. He would sooner tackle all the Haigs in Christendom than face the derision of his neighbors, whom he had assiduously taught to expect great things of him on the first occasion. Here was the occasion; he had seized it, blinded by passion; and there was no way for him now but to see it through. He straightened up, and faced the three cow-punchers.

“All right!” he cried defiantly. “It’s a thousand.”

But the three had heard the name murmured by the crowd, had seen the distant horseman. Larkin was plainly elated. Raley and Smith, as plainly abashed, looked this way and that, avoiding the eyes of their leader, and every other eye as well. Huntington, seeing the game about to slip from his hands, whirled on his heel and looked swiftly toward the store.

“Thompson!” he yelled.

“Here!” was the answer, as a small, gray-bearded man in shirt sleeves advanced a step or two from the door.

“Fetch me that roll from your safe, will you?”

“Right!”

As Thompson disappeared within the store, Huntington turned again toward the cowboys.

“A thousand dollars–cash!” he repeated.

Larkin leaned forward on his horse, and looked at him shrewdly.

“Seems to me it’s not the horse you’re after so much as him,” he said, with a grin and a nod toward the road.

“That’s as may be,” retorted Huntington. “Money talks.”

“An’ it says mighty funny things sometimes,” replied Larkin, who now made no concealment of his dislike of Huntington and his “game.”

“We’ll see!” cried Huntington angrily. “How does twelve hundred sound to you two?”

He looked steadily at Raley and Smith, who exchanged glances.

“What’s your awful hurry?” Larkin demanded, in a drawling tone, but with an anxious eye for the galloping figure now in plain view. “We’ll give Haig a chance to bid–eh, men?”

Smith shot an angry but uneasy look at the leader. Huntington saw it, and guessed that there was more than weariness and greed in the willingness of Smith and Raley to combine against Larkin. Probably, he thought, there had been differences of opinion, disputes even, on the road to Paradise. He turned impatiently toward the store.

At that instant Thompson ran out, broke through the ring of men, and handed a roll of “yellowbacks” to Huntington, who hurriedly peeled off several of the bills, and thrust them at arm’s length toward the wavering cow-punchers.

“Haig talked about a thousand dollars!” he cried. “There’s fifteen hundred. Do you want it?”

For a moment it was heads or tails. Even Larkin eyed the money hungrily. Then his teeth clicked together, and he turned upon his partners, whose faces showed plainly the answer that was upon their lips.

“An’ what’ll you say to him?” he demanded.

“Eighteen hundred!” shouted Huntington.

“That’s good enough for me!” cried Raley. “Say it, Jud!”

There was a distant thunder of hoofs as Haig’s horse took the short bridge over the Brightwater. The crowd backed still farther away from Huntington, who was again fingering his roll of bills.

“Two thousand!” he roared, shaking the handful of “yellowbacks” at the wavering Smith.

Raley leaned from his saddle, and grabbed Smith’s arm.

“Quick, Jud!” he pleaded hotly. “Don’t be a fool!”

“All right! We’ll take it!” answered Smith.

“No!” said Larkin firmly, pulling his horse around between Huntington and the two partners.

“Yes!” the two cried out together.

Huntington stepped forward, and thrust both handfuls of bills almost into Larkin’s face.

“Name your price then!” he bellowed.

Larkin looked at the money,–smelt it,–as he said afterwards, grimly confessing his weakness at the sight of more than he could save in years of riding the range and branding mavericks. If there had been ten seconds more–

Haig galloped into the crowd, which gave him plenty of room, and reined up his pony just in front of the golden outlaw. For some instants he saw only the horse; and his eyes kindled. Then he faced the cowboys and Huntington.

They were fixed in almost the very attitudes in which he had come upon them. Huntington’s outstretched hands had indeed fallen to his side, but they still clutched the crumpled bills. Raley’s blood-stained face was purple with anger and chagrin, while Smith’s wore a sullen, hangdog look. As for Larkin, he met Haig’s questioning scrutiny with a look of mingled triumph and guilt.

“Well, why don’t you go on?” asked Haig, with a smile.

There was no response. The silence was again so complete that the music of the Brightwater was heard across the meadows.

Haig slowly swept the crowd with an inquiring glance. All these men were hostile toward him, of course; but how far would they support Huntington? No matter! He swung himself suddenly out of the saddle, and addressed himself to the leader of the cowboys.

“You’re Larkin, aren’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” answered the embarrassed cow-puncher.

“And the others are Smith and–”

“Raley,” prompted Larkin.

“And here, of course, is my good friend Huntington, looking like Fortune with both hands full.”

Several men in the crowd laughed, whereupon Huntington, who had evidently forgotten the money, made matters worse for himself by hastily and clumsily thrusting it into the pockets of his coat, while his face flushed angrily.

“That’s right, Cousin Seth,” Haig said lightly. “You may need it.”

Marion, at these words, quivered with alarm. Was he going to tell Huntington, there in that crowd, of the incident in the pasture? His next speech, however, reassured her.

“Now, Larkin,” he said, “let’s understand things. That’s my horse, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I’ve been sayin’ some time back,” answered Larkin, in a tone of relief.

“And you, Smith?”

“I suppose so,” was the sullen reply.

“And Raley?”

“No, it ain’t!” answered that one with a sudden flare-up of courage.

“Then whose horse is it?”

“It belongs to Larkin an’ Smith an’ me.”

“Of course. But why did you bring him to Paradise Park?”

“To sell him.”

“To whom, please?”

Raley, caught in the trap, looked appealingly toward Smith, but got no help from him.

“To whom?” repeated Haig sharply.

“To you–if you wanted him!” Raley blurted out at last.

“If I wanted him!” retorted Haig ironically. “I bargained for him with you, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” growled Raley.

“And you went and caught him for me?”

“Yes.”

“And you brought him to Paradise Park for me?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Don’t be downhearted!” he said cheerfully. “A good name is more to be desired than great riches. Isn’t that so, Cousin Seth?”

The ranchman’s face flamed.

“If you’ve got anything to say to me, say it quick!” he jerked out.

“I have several things to say to you, one at a time,” replied Haig smoothly. “To begin with, these men told you the horse was mine, didn’t they?”

“No, they didn’t. They said you’d offered a thousand dollars for him.”

Haig laughed.

“All right, if that suits you better! They told you they had brought him here to deliver him to me for a thousand dollars, and you thought it would be a fine joke to buy him yourself. Is that it?”

Huntington did not respond to this, but watched Haig narrowly, a little puzzled by his manner.

“How much did he offer you?” Haig asked Larkin.

“Two thousand dollars–and then he said name our price.”

Haig whistled.

“Well, I’m damned if you haven’t got some sporting blood in you!” he said, smiling at Huntington. “How much was in your roll?”

Huntington’s first impulse was to tell Haig that it was none of his business. But he was deceived by Haig’s manner, having expected his enemy to fall upon him like a thunderbolt. His surprise was shared, indeed, by most of the men, who had expected gun-play on the jump. Only Marion, sitting still and watchful on her pony, was not misled. She felt that Haig was playing with Huntington, and biding his time.

Huntington’s vanity completed his self-delusion.

“Four thousand, two hundred dollars” he replied boastfully, glancing around at his neighbors.

“Whew!” uttered Haig, between pursed lips. Then to Larkin: “You were hard pressed, weren’t you? But never mind, boys, I’ll do better than I promised–and charge it up to Cousin Seth.”

Another laugh flickered around the crowd. It was evident that there was no great objection to seeing Huntington baited.

“My name’s Huntington!” he snorted. “What’s this damned cousin business, anyhow?”

Haig raised his eyebrows.

“Does it annoy you?” he asked, in a tone of exaggerated politeness.

Huntington merely glared. He was one of those self-made wits who enjoy their own jokes immensely but grumble at plucking barbed shafts out of their own skins. He began to wish for the thunderbolt.

“But it’s your own fault, you know,” Haig added.

“What in hell are you talking about?” Huntington growled.

“I’m talking about your last visit to my ranch.”

“My last–What do you mean, damn you!” the ranchman thundered, his right hand moving to his belt.

There was a hurried movement among those of the crowd who, absorbed in the dialogue, had half-consciously crept nearer. But Haig appeared to have noticed neither Huntington’s motion nor the backing away of the spectators.

“And wouldn’t it have been reckless extravagance to pay good money for Sunnysides when you might just have come and taken him out of my corrals?”

For a few seconds Huntington, as if he could scarce believe that he heard aright, was speechless with amazement and rage.

“Say it, damn you!” he said chokingly. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t get so excited, or you may break a blood vessel, Cous–I beg your pardon, Mister Huntington.”

“Say it!” roared the ranchman.

Then Haig dropped his mask.

“I will say it,” he began in a voice that rang ominously. “I’ll say it so that even you cannot fail to understand me. I mean that I’m tired of your threats and persecutions. I mean that you have harassed me and my men at every opportunity. I mean that you drove that bunch of my cattle off the cliff last September. I mean that within twenty-four hours another fence has been cut, and that you know who did it. I mean that your attempt to buy my horse was only another of the contemptible and cowardly tricks you have played on me. I mean, Huntington, that you are a bully, a liar and a thief!”

Huntington’s hand had slipped to the butt of his revolver at the beginning of this intolerable speech; but he had waited, as if fascinated, as if unable to move under the torrent of denunciation. Then to the onlookers it appeared that the bold young man, who had not yet made the slightest motion toward his own weapon, would be slain in his tracks. But Haig was as much the quicker in action as he was the nimbler in wit.

The two revolvers cracked, it seemed, as one, but with very different results. Haig’s battered old hat, lifted as if by a sudden gust of wind, slid from his head, and fell to the ground with a bullet hole through it. But Huntington threw up his hands, pitched forward, and fell in a heap in the dusty road.

There was a single shrill, short-cut shriek as a woman near the door of the post-office slipped down in a faint; and then a chorus of quavering cries as other women clutched the arms of the men nearest them.

Marion swayed in her saddle, her head drooping on her breast. A young cowboy darted from the crowd, and grabbed her as she fell. He started to lift and carry her away, but, with a desperate effort, she recovered, and stood erect, trying to thrust him from her. He held her nevertheless, supporting her with an arm under one of hers.

Haig had quickly turned and faced the group of men at the left of the road.

“Is there anybody else here that wants to buy my horse?” he demanded coolly.

There was no response, no movement. He whirled, and confronted the silent row of men on the other side.

“Is there anybody else here who thinks he can drive me out of Paradise Park?”

Still no one replied; and Haig, with a shrug, thrust his revolver back in its holster.

“Thompson!” he called out.

“Here!” was the answer, in the same tone of readiness with which he had responded to Huntington. By keeping his mouth shut, and never taking sides in any of the occasional disagreements and disputes that enlivened the tedium of life in that community, Thompson had established a reputation for neutrality and trustworthiness, and was permitted to be everybody’s friend.

“Look after Huntington, please!” said Haig. “He’s not badly hit–you’ll find the bullet under the left shoulder blade. It’ll do him good.”

Thompson and some others lifted Huntington, and carried him into the store; and at that moment the stage, its approach unnoticed, rattled up, and stopped with shrieking brakes and creaking harness. There was a sudden outbreak of speech on all sides, as if the tension had been relaxed by the recurrence of a familiar and orderly event. In the confusion Haig turned toward Sunnysides and the three cow-punchers.

“Now, Larkin,” he began briskly, “we’ll finish this business, and then–”

He stopped short, and stared.

By the side of the golden horse stood Marion. Still shocked and bewildered, yet strangely thrilled, she had stretched out one trembling arm, and rested her hand on the neck of the wild creature, from which every other person in the crowd around–and she too in her right senses–had kept away, in full appreciation of his reputation. Whether it was that the outlaw had for the time given up all notion of resistance and hostility, or that he felt the difference between the girl’s gentle touch and the rough handling he had undergone, he did not stir. But this docility, this understanding, was only a part of the sight that brought Haig to a standstill.

He had left many things behind him, but there was one thing he had not been, able to destroy as he would have destroyed it, root and branch and flower. He would always have a weakness–he called it that–for beauty in whatever form it appeared to him. Sunsets and twilights, the shadows of trees in still waters, flowers and reeds, old ruins in the moonlight, sometimes even faces moved him until he was ashamed, and berated himself for a sentimental weakling. And now–

The girl was tawny as a leopard. Her hair was almost exactly the color of the outlaw’s dull yellow mane, but finer, of course, and softer; and her complexion–he wondered that he had not noticed it before–had a peculiar richness and brilliancy that seemed to reflect the luster of Sunnysides’ golden hide. They stood there entrancing his artist-eye with their perfect harmony of line and color; and the last thin rays of the setting sun bathed horse and girl in a golden light–an atmosphere in which they glowed like one of Titian’s mellowed canvases.

“Don’t move, please!” he exclaimed.

But Marion did not hear, or did not heed. She dropped her hand, and glided toward him, while he watched her, curious and rapt. Perhaps it was because he saw her through that golden glow, perhaps because his nerves were a little unsteady in the reaction from the strain they had undergone, that she made a singular appeal to his imagination. He fancied that for all the fineness of her figure, the exquisite poise of her small head, the cameo-like delicacy of her face, there was something in her as wild, untamed, and elemental as the heart of Sunnysides.

Thus she moved slowly past him, and passing gave him a long and steady look, with an unfathomable expression in her eyes,–an expression neither of anger nor of bitterness nor of disgust nor of anything he might have expected after all he had done that day. He turned, and watched her until she had disappeared in the crowd around the stagecoach; and with her went out the last rays of the sun.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Philip Haig.

With a shake of his shoulders, as if to throw off some unwelcome weight upon them, he turned again to take up his business with the gaping cow-punchers.

CHAPTER V

“HE SHALL TELL ME!”

Doctor Wilson, arriving from Tellurium on the third day after the encounter at Paradise, found Huntington in a bad way, due not so much to the wound in his left shoulder as to the state of his mind. Haig’s bullet was extracted without difficulty or serious complications, but Haig’s words were encysted too deep for any probe. Huntington’s self-love had been dealt a mortal blow; and somebody must pay for it.

First of all it was Claire that paid; then Marion. He did not mean to be disagreeable to them, but never having cultivated self-restraint he had none of it now to ease the days of his convalescence. He filled the house with his clamor, and required as much attention as an ailing child. There were just two ways to keep him quiet. Claire soothed him when she sat at his bedside, with one of his huge “paws” held in her tiny hands; and Marion found, somewhat to her surprise, that Seth liked music. The piano was one of the wonders of the Huntington house, for pianos are not essential instruments in the equipment of cattle ranches, and this was the only one in all that region of cattledom.

In music Seth’s tastes were sentimental. “Lost Chords” and “Rosaries” subdued him almost to tears; and if Marion only brought him tuneful violets every morn he tried his best to be good. So when Claire was not on duty at the bedside Marion must needs be on duty at the piano,–an ordeal that Claire endured, of course, more patiently than Marion.

Claire was almost comically unfit to be a ranchman’s wife, and she too had been a trial on occasions. She was small and delicate, but vivacious, amiable, bright. Her blue eyes always had a childlike wonder in them, and she was fond of wearing her fluffy, golden hair in a girlish knot low on her neck, or even in a long, thick braid down her back, with a blue ribbon bow at the end. She flitted about the house like a butterfly, and yet she had managed somehow to make her home the marvel of Paradise Park.

To begin with it was the ordinary, one-story, rambling house of pine, with spruce-clad hills rising behind it, and a little stream, rollicking down between it and the corrals. But a wide veranda had been constructed on three sides of it, furnished with wicker chairs, and half-screened with boxes of growing flowers. All around the house flowers grew,–old-fashioned garden flowers, roses and geraniums; beds of them everywhere, and blossoming shrubs along the stream.

The house contained, besides the kitchen and the bedrooms, just one big room. This, with its low ceiling, unpainted timbers, and small windows, was not unlike the hall of some old manor house. The floor was covered with Navajo rugs in rich and barbaric colors; the walls were draped with burlap in dull red dyes; and the windows were curtained with chintz in bright yellows and reds. Above the windows and doors hung many heads of deer and elk and mountain sheep, and rifles on racks of horn. Between the two front windows stood the upright piano, and near it a small bookcase filled with novels and volumes of poetry. The big oak table at mealtime was made to look very inviting with white napery and modest china and silver, and a bouquet always in its center. At other times it was a library table, heaped with books and magazines, and in the evening, when the kerosene lamps were lighted, and the piñon was blazing in the great fireplace, the room seemed as remote from Paradise Park as Claire herself.

There was an occasional visitor at Huntington’s in the period of his convalescence, usually a ranchwife eager for another glimpse at Claire’s wonderful housekeeping, or a young cow-puncher drawn by the attraction of two very pretty and unusual women in one house. But the ranchmen themselves, with two or three exceptions, were content to be solicitous at long range–an abstention that relieved and at the same time troubled Huntington. He was not eager to talk with his neighbors about that episode at the post-office, but their aloofness filled him with uneasiness. Well, let them wait! They would hear from him again, and so should Haig!

There was, among the visitors, one whose coming perceptibly lightened the tedium of those days. Marion had the good fortune to see him in time not to be taken by surprise. Seated on the veranda after an exhausting recital for the benefit of Huntington, she perceived the figure of a horseman–yes, it was a horseman–riding out of the pines toward the corrals. She stared. He was so little and so lost between his pony, which seemed extraordinarily big, and his sombrero, which undoubtedly was enormous, that she remained for a moment dumb, and then, choking with laughter, fled into the house.

“Look, Claire, look!” she cried, grabbing her cousin’s arm.

Claire, dragged to the door, looked and giggled.

“Haven’t you seen that before?” she asked.

“No! Never!” answered Marion, her hand upon her mouth.

“Of course. He’s just arrived–for the season. He was here last year, and the year before.”

“And they let him?” demanded Marion, thinking of the irrepressible cow-punchers.

“Oh, he’s all right!” Claire assured her. “That is, after you get used to him. The men had all sorts of fun with him the first summer he was here. But he took all their fun good-naturedly, and showed them he had pluck too. They began to like him. Everybody likes him, and so will you.”

“But in the name of–who is he?”

The little man had descended like a parachute from his pony, and was now bobbing rapidly up the graveled walk.