The Angel of the Gila Part 50

For the first time in her life, Esther was bedded on the ground. Her face was turned upward, her eyes, fixed upon the starry deeps. Hour after hour went by. The regular breathing of her fellow-travelers a.s.sured her that all were asleep. She could not sleep.

The marvelous scene above her grew upon her. She lay still, looking, looking into the infinite, that infinite around her, above her, beyond and beyond forever, who knows whither?

The air, at first dark about her, grew into a weird, wonderful light.

The dome grew vaster and vaster; and, with the marvelous expansion, she began to realize stars. They seemed to move from their solid ebon background, and to float in s.p.a.ce.

Stars! What do stars mean to the ordinary human? Just stars that come and go as a matter of course; just as men eat and drink, buy and sell, live and die. I say Esther Bright began to _realize_ stars. I do not mean by that that she was unfamiliar with certain astronomical facts all intelligent people are supposed to know. Far from it. She knew much of mathematical astronomy. It had a fascination for her. But she had not _realized_ stars, _felt_ stars, as she was to realize them this night. All the world was shut out from her vision, save that marvelous dome of sky, alight with myriads and myriads of stars, from zenith to horizon. She recalled Milton's description of the floor of heaven, and reveled in the thought. She gazed on one tremulous star, till it seemed a soul in s.p.a.ce, beckoning to her to join it, in the company of the glorified. Her vision intensified. Into the Milky Way she gazed, till it seemed to her the pathway up to G.o.d. G.o.d! What was G.o.d?

Then the stillness grew till it seemed the Infinite Presence. The stars, she was sure, made a s.h.i.+ning pathway straight to her. Across the pathway, flashed shooting stars. She saw it all so clearly. Then the vast s.p.a.ce, up to the shadowy sh.o.r.es of the Infinite Sea, filled with a strange, unearthly light. G.o.d! Was this _G.o.d_? Then she must be on holy ground! She felt herself lifted into the Everlasting Arms. The wind rose and whispered softly. And Esther Bright slept. Who shall say she did not sleep close to the very heart of G.o.d?

CHAPTER XIX

INASMUCH

While the Clayton party were journeying from Clifton, John Harding was on guard, vigilant, watchful. In the Post Office that morning, he chanced to hear some one repeat a boast Lord Kelwin had made in regard to Carla Earle, whom he had heretofore treated with patronizing condescension.

John Harding returned to Clayton Ranch, and invented excuses to be about the house, saying, as he went off to do some ch.o.r.es, that if they needed him, just to call him, adding that he'd be within hearing.

Carla and Edith joked a little about his solicitude, and went about their daily tasks, planning surprises for the hungry company, on their return that night. Carla seemed happier this day than usual, and began to make a soft music in her throat like the warbling of a bird. She had been alone in the room for some time, when she heard a step. She stopped warbling when she recognized the voice of Lord Kelwin, whom she instinctively feared.

He had entered the house unannounced, and now walked into the dining room.

"Aha, my beauty!" he said, stepping toward her. "Aha, my bird! Caught at last!"

She saw that he was intoxicated.

"So you are alone at last, bird."

He flung himself between her and the door. Something in his face filled her with disgust and alarm. He kept coming towards her, uttering words of insolent familiarity, and she kept backing away.

Finally he lunged forward, grasped her by the arm, and tried to hold her. Evidently, he had not counted on opposition from her; and when he found his will thwarted, all the beast in him seemed roused. He struck her in the mouth, calling her vile names as he did so. In an instant, her shrieks of terror went ringing through the house. They brought Edith, in sudden alarm, and John Harding. The latter, recognizing the situation at a glance, sprang forward, and clutched the Irishman by the throat.

"Let her go," he said, "you blankety blanked coward. Let her go, I say!" As he spoke, he gripped Kelwin's throat tightly, shaking him as if he were a rat. Then he grew dangerously white.

The visitor, enraged at this unexpected interference, grew violent. He turned upon Jack Harding, and drew his gun; but Jack, sober and alert, knocked the gun from his hand; and, closing with him, dealt terrific blows in his face. All the brute in the drunken man roused. The sober man had the advantage. The struggle lasted but a few moments, though it seemed an eternity to the frightened girls. Finally, Jack Harding placed his knees on Kelwin's chest and arms, his hand on his throat, choking him until he gasped for mercy. Then the cowboy let him rise.

As soon as he was free, he began to curse Carla Earle. Jack Harding promptly knocked him down. Partly sobered, the man rose, and staggered from the room.

Carla stood trembling, her face white with fear.

Harding saw her distress, and said with unusual gentleness:

"Don't ye care, Miss Carla. 'Tain't so, anyway. He lied. He'll pay for it."

"Oh, don't meddle with him, I beg you," she said with sudden alarm.

"He might shoot you."

"Shoot? Let him. But he can't insult any decent woman, while I'm near to protect her. Mark that."

Carla turned to resume her duties, but fell in a limp heap on the floor. Then Edith and Jack Harding worked to bring her to. At last her eyes opened. She looked around, dazed, bewildered. When she realized what had happened, she asked:

"Has that dreadful man gone?"

On being a.s.sured that he was at a safe distance, she tried to rise, but her knees gave way, and she sank to the floor again.

So Jack and Edith prepared the evening meal, and waited. At last they heard the sound of the returning carriage, and, a few moments later, welcomed the party at the gate.

When John Clayton heard what had happened, he seemed dumfounded.

"How dared he? How dared he?" he repeated, indignantly.

But Kenneth's mouth set hard, and it did not augur well for Lord Kelwin.

For one thing, all were thankful during the ensuing weeks,--the Irish n.o.bleman no longer came to Clayton Ranch, socially, or otherwise. He managed to keep himself in the background, and was seldom heard of save as he figured in some drunken brawl. But Jack Harding, who understood him best of all, and who knew the venom of his tongue, hounded him day by day. And there grew up in Lord Kelwin's mind a deepening fear and hate of Jack Harding.

CHAPTER XX

A WOMAN'S NO

Miles and miles of desert country, sometimes a dull red, sometimes almost yellow of hue; over that a dome of bluest blue; between the two, air, crystalline, and full of light; and everywhere, scattered with reckless profusion, from Nature's lavish hand, the splendor of cactus blossoms. That is Arizona in June. And in this glory of color, one June day, walked Mrs. Clayton and Esther Bright, returning from a round of neighborhood calls.

As they approached Clayton Ranch, they paused to admire the cactus blossoms. The giant cactus, towering above the house, was now covered with a profusion of exquisite blossoms of deepest pink. Red blossoms, pink blossoms, white blossoms, yellow blossoms everywhere, but guarded by thousands of thorns and spines. Esther stopped and picked some yellow blossoms from the p.r.i.c.kly pear, only to find her fingers stinging from its minute spines.

"It serves me right," she said, making a wry face. "I knew better, but I love the blossoms."

"Good evening," called a cheery voice from the veranda. It was Mr.

Clayton.

"Kenneth called to see you, Miss Bright," he continued. "He would like you to go for a drive with him this evening."

"Far?" she asked.

"He didn't say."

The two women entered the house, and soon returned refreshed. On the s.p.a.cious veranda, the family gathered in the cool of the day, to feast their eyes on the gorgeous sunsets.

"Do you know," said Esther, "it refreshes me whenever I _look_ at snow-capped Mt. Graham?"

She looked far away to the south. "I shall miss it all," she said, pensively, "all the grandeur of scene, miss all of you here, miss my dear children, when I go home."

"Oh, I hate to think of your going," said Edith, lifting the teacher's hand to her cheek. "I'm afraid you won't come back."