The Golden Woman Part 10

bin black an' dead. Why, she--she ain't even brown. She's white as white." His voice became softer, and he was no longer addressing the ex-Churchman. "Did y' ever see sech skin--so soft an' white? An' that ha'r, my word! I'd gamble a dollar her eyes is blue--ef she'd jest open 'em."

He reached out a great dirty hand to touch the beautiful whiteness of the girl's throat with a caressing movement, but instantly Buck's voice, sharp and commanding, stayed his action.

"Quit that!" he cried. "Ke'p your durned hands to yourself," he added, with a strange hoa.r.s.eness.

Pete's eyes lit angrily.

"Eh? What's amiss?" he demanded. "Guess I ain't no disease."

Beasley chuckled across at him, and the sound of his mirth infuriated Buck. He understood the laugh and the meaning underlying it.

"Buck turned wet nurse," cried the ex-Churchman, as he beheld the sudden flush on the youngster's face.

"You can ke'p your durned talk," Buck cried. "You Beasley--and the lot of you," he went on recklessly. "She's no ord'nary gal; she's--she's a lady."

Curly and Ike nodded agreement.

But Beasley, whatever his fears of the storm, understood the men of his world. Nor had he any fear of them, and Buck's threat only had the effect of rousing the worst side of his nature, at all times very near the surface.

"Lady? Psha'! Write her down a woman, they're all the same, only dressed different. Seems to me it's better they're all just women. An'

Pete's good enough for any woman, eh, Pete? She's just a nice, dandy bit o' soft flesh an' blood, eh, Pete? Guess you like them sort, eh, Pete?"

The man's laugh was a hideous thing to listen to, but Pete was not listening. Buck heard, and his dark face went ghastly pale, even though his eyes were fixed on the beautiful face with its closed, heavily-lashed eyes. Pete's attention was held by the delicate contours of her perfect figure and the gaping, bedraggled white s.h.i.+rt-waist, where the soft flesh of her fair bosom showed through, and the delicate lace and ribbons of her undergarments were left in full view.

No one offered Beasley encouragement and his laugh fell flat. And when Curly spoke it was to express something of the general thought.

"Wonder how she came here?" he said thoughtfully.

"Seems as though the storm had kind o' dumped her down," Abe Allinson admitted.

Again Beasley chuckled.

"Say, was ther' ever such a miracle o' foolishness as you fellers? You make me laff--or tired, or something. Wher'd she come from? Ain't the Padre sold his farm?" he demanded, turning on Buck. "Ain't he sold it to a woman? An' ain't he expectin' her along?"

Buck withdrew his eyes from the beautiful face, and looked up in answer to the challenge.

"Why, yes," he said, his look suddenly hardening as he confronted Beasley's face. "I had forgotten. This must surely be Miss--Miss Rest.

That's the name Mrs. Ransford, the old woman at the farm, said. Rest."

He repeated the name as though it were pleasant to his ears.

"Course," cried Curly cheerfully. "That's who it is--sure."

"Rest, eh? Miss--Rest," murmured the preoccupied Pete. Then he added, half to himself, "My, but she's a dandy! Ain't--ain't she a pictur', ain't she----?"

Buck suddenly pushed him aside, and his action was probably rougher than he knew. But for some reason he did not care. For some reason he had no thought for any one but the fair creature lying in his arms.

His head was throbbing with a strange excitement, and he moved swiftly toward the door, anxious to leave the inquisitive eyes of his companions behind him.

As he reached the door Beasley's hateful tones arrested him.

"Say, you ain't takin' that pore thing up to the fort, are you?" he jeered.

Buck swung about with the swiftness of a panther. His eyes were ablaze with a cold fire.

"You rotten outlaw parson!" he cried.

He waited for the insult to drive home. Then when he saw the fury in the other's face, a fury he intended to stir, he went on--

"Another insinuation like that an' I'll shoot you like the dog you are," he cried, and without waiting for an answer he turned to the others. "Say, fellers," he went on, "I'm takin' this gal wher' she belongs--down to the farm. I'm goin' to hand her over to the old woman there. An' if I hear another filthy suggestion from this durned skunk Beasley, what I said goes. It's not a threat. It's a promise, sure, an' I don't ever forgit my promises."

Beasley's face was livid, and he drew a sharp breath.

"I don't know 'bout promises," he said fiercely. "But you won't find me fergittin' much either."

Buck turned to the door again and threw his retort over his shoulder.

"Then you sure won't forgit I've told you what you are."

"I sure won't."

Nor did Buck fail to appreciate the venom the other flung into his words. But he was reckless--always reckless. And he hurried through the doorway and strode off with his still unconscious burden.

CHAPTER VII

A SIMPLE MANHOOD

All thought of Beasley Melford quickly became lost in feelings of a deeper and stronger nature as Buck pa.s.sed out into the open. His was not a nature to dwell unnecessarily upon the clas.h.i.+ngs of every-day life. Such pinp.r.i.c.ks were generally superficial, to be brushed aside and treated without undue consideration until such time as some resulting fester might gather and drastic action become necessary. The fester had not yet gathered, therefore he set his quarrel aside for the time when he could give it his undivided attention.

As he strode away the world seemed very wide to Buck. So wide, indeed, that he had no idea of its limits, nor any desire to seek them. He preferred that his eyes should dwell only upon those things which presented themselves before a plain, wholesome vision. He had no desire to peer into the tainted recesses of any other life than that which he had always known. And in his outlook was to be witnessed the careful guidance of his friend, the Padre. Nor was his capacity stunted thereby, nor his strong manhood. On the contrary, it left him with a great reserve of power to fight his little battle of the wilderness.

Yet surely such a nature as his should have been dangerously open to disaster. The guilelessness resulting from such a simplicity of life ought surely to have fitted him for a headlong rush into the pitfalls which are ever awaiting the unwary. This might have been so in a man of less strength, less reckless purpose. Therein lay his greatest safeguard. His was the strength, the courage, the resource of a mind trained in the hard school of the battle for existence in the wilderness, where, without subtlety, without fear, he walked over whatever path life offered him, ready to meet every obstruction, every disaster, with invincible courage.

It was through this very att.i.tude that his threat against Beasley Melford was not to be treated lightly. His comrades understood it.

Beasley himself knew it. Buck had a.s.sured him that he would shoot him down like a dog if he offended against the unwritten laws of instinctive chivalry as he understood them, and he would do it without any compunction or fear of consequences.

A woman's fame to him was something too sacred to be lightly treated, something quite above the mere consideration of life and death. The latter was an ethical proposition which afforded him, where a high principle was in the balance against it, no qualms whatsoever. It was the inevitable result of his harsh training in the life that was his.

The hot, rich blood of strong manhood ran in his veins, but it was the hot blood tempered with honesty and courage, and without one single taint of meanness.

As he pa.s.sed down the river bank, beyond which the racing waters flowed a veritable torrent, he saw the camp women moving about outside their huts. He saw them wringing out their rain-drenched garments.

Thus he knew that the storm had served their miserable homes badly, and he felt sorry for them.

For the most part they were heavy, frowsy creatures, slatternly and uncouth. They came generally from the dregs of frontier cities, or were the sweepings of the open country, gleaned in the debauched moments of the men who protected them. Nor, as his eyes wandered in their direction, was it possible to help a comparison between them and the burden of delicate womanhood he held in his arms, a comparison which found them painfully wanting.

He pa.s.sed on under the bold scrutiny of those feminine eyes, but they left him quite unconscious. His thoughts had drifted into a wonderful dreamland of his own, a dreamland such as he had never visited before, an unsuspected dreamland whose beauties could never again hold him as they did now.

The sparkling sunlight which had so swiftly followed in the wake of the storm, lapping up the moisture of the drenching earth with its fiery tongue, shed a radiance over the familiar landscape, so that it revealed new and unsuspected beauties to his wondering eyes. How came it that the world, his world, looked so fair? The distant hills, those hills which had always thrilled his heart with the sombre note of their magnificence, those hills which he had known since his earliest childhood, with their black, awe-inspiring forests, they were somehow different, so different.