The Golden Woman Part 41

Buck shook his head and moved out of the stall.

"You sure done dead right. The Padre said it."

"Then what was the meaning in your--what you said?"

Buck smiled.

"Nothing--just nothing."

Joan eyed him a moment in some doubt. Then she pa.s.sed the matter over, and again the pleasure at his coming shone forth.

"Oh, Buck," she cried, "there are some mean people in the world. I've been talking to that horror, Beasley. He is a horror, isn't he? He's been telling me something of the talk of the camp. He's been telling me how--how popular I am," she finished up with a mirthless laugh.

"Popular? I--I don't get you."

Buck's whole expression had changed at the mention of Beasley's name.

Joan had no reason to inquire his opinion of the storekeeper.

"You wouldn't," she hastened on. "You could never understand such wicked meanness as that man is capable of. I'm sure he hates me, and only told me these--these things to make me miserable. And I was feeling so happy, too, after seeing your Padre," she added regretfully.

"An' what are the things he's been sayin'?"

Buck's jaws were set.

"Oh, I can't tell you what he said, except--except that the men think I'm responsible for the death of those two. The other things were too awful. It seems I'm--I'm the talk of the camp in--in an awful way. He says they hate me. But I believe it's simply him. You see, he's tried to--to ingratiate himself with me--oh, it's some time back, and I--well, I never could stand him, after that time when the boys gave me the gold. I wish they had never given me that gold. He still persists it's unlucky, and I--I'm beginning to think so, too."

"Did he--insult you?" Buck asked sharply, ignoring the rest.

Joan looked quickly into the man's hot eyes, and in that moment realized the necessity for prudence. The fierce spirit was s.h.i.+ning there. That only partly tamed spirit, which made her so glad when she thought of it.

"Oh, no," she said. "It wasn't that he insulted me. No--no. Don't think that. Only he went out of his way to tell me these things, to make me miserable. I was angry then, but I've got over it now. It--it doesn't matter. You see I just told you because--because----"

"If that man insulted you, I'd--kill him!"

Buck had drawn nearer to her. His tall figure was leaning forward, and his eyes, so fiercely alight, burned down into hers in a manner that half frightened her, yet carried with it a feeling that thrilled her heart with an almost painful delight. There was something so magnetic in this man's outburst, something so sweeping to her responsive nature. It was almost as though he had taken her in his two strong hands and made her yield obedience to his dominating will. It gave her a strange and wonderful confidence. It made her feel as if this power of his must possess the same convincing strength for the rest of the world. That he must sway all who came into contact with him. Her gladness at his visit increased. It was good to feel that he was near at hand.

But her woman's mind sought to restrain him.

"Please--please don't talk like that," she said, in a tone that carried no real conviction. "No, Beasley would not dare insult me--for himself."

The girl drew back to the oat-box, and seated herself. Buck's moment of pa.s.sion had brought a deep flush to his cheeks, and his dark eyes moved restlessly.

"Why did you tell me?"

There was no escaping the swift directness of this man's mind. His question came with little less force than had been his threat against Beasley. He was still lashed by his thought of the wretched saloon-keeper.

But Joan had no answer ready. Why had she told him? She knew. She knew in a vague sort of way. She had told him because she had been sure of his sympathy. She had told him because she knew his strength, and to lean on that always helped her. Without questioning herself, or her feelings, she had come to rely upon him in all things.

But his sharp interrogation had given her pause. She repeated his question to herself, and somehow found herself avoiding his gaze.

Somehow she could give him no answer.

Buck chafed for a moment in desperate silence. He turned his hot eyes toward the door, and stared out at the distant hills. Caesar rattled his collar chain, and scattered the hay in his search for the choicest morsels. The heavy draft horses were slumbering where they stood.

Presently the man's eyes came back to the girl, devouring the beauty of her still averted face.

"Say," he went on presently, "you never felt so that your head would burst, so that the only thing worth while doin' would be to kill some one?" He smiled. "That's how I feel, when I know Beasley's been talkin' to you."

Joan turned to him with a responsive smile. She was glad he was talking again. A strange discomfort, a nervousness not altogether unpleasant had somehow taken hold of her, and the sound of his voice relieved her.

She shook her head.

"No," she said frankly. "I--don't think I ever feel that way. But I don't like Beasley."

Buck's heat had pa.s.sed. He laughed.

"That was sure a fool question to ask," he said. "Say, it 'ud be like askin' a dove to get busy with a gun."

"I've heard doves are by no means the gentle creatures popular belief would have them."

"Guess ther's doves--an' doves," Buck said enigmatically. "I can't jest see you bustin' to hurt a fly."

"Not even Beasley?"

Joan laughed slily.

But Buck ignored the challenge. He stirred restlessly. He thrust his fingers into the side pockets of the waist-coat he wore hanging open.

He withdrew them, and s.h.i.+fted his feet. Then, with a sudden, impatient movement, he thrust his slouch hat back from his forehead.

"Guess I can't say these things right," he gulped out with a swift, impulsive rush. "What I want to say is that's how I feel when anything happens amiss your way. I want to say it don't matter if it's Beasley, or--or jest things that can't be helped. I want to get around and set 'em right for you----"

Joan's eyes were startled. A sudden pallor had replaced the smile on her lips, and drained the rich, warm color from her cheeks.

"You've always done those things for me, Buck," she interrupted him hastily. "You've been the kindest--the best----"

"Don't say those things," Buck broke in with a hardly restrained pa.s.sion. "It hurts to hear 'em. Kindest? Best? Say, when a man feels same as me, words like them hurt, hurt right in through here," he tapped his chest with an awkward gesture. "They drive a man nigh crazy. A man don't want to hear them from the woman he loves. Yes, loves!"

The man's dark eyes were burning, and as the girl rose from her seat he reached out one brown hand to detain her. But his gesture was needless. She made no move to go. She stood before him, her proud young face now flus.h.i.+ng, now pale with emotion, her wonderful eyes veiled lest he should read in their depths feelings that she was struggling to conceal. Her rounded bosom rose and fell with the furious beatings of a heart she could not still.

"No, no," the man rushed on, "you got to hear me, if it makes you hate me fer the rest of your life. I'm nothing but jest a plain feller who's lived all his life in this back country. I've got no education, nothin' but jest what I am--here. An' I love you, I love you like nothing else in all the world. Say," he went on, the first hot rush of his words checking, "I bin gropin' around these hills learning all that's bin set there for me to learn. I tried to learn my lessons right. I done my best. But this one thing they couldn't teach me.

Something which I guess most every feller's got to learn some time.

An' you've taught me that.

"Say." The restraint lost its power, and the man's great pa.s.sion swept him on in a swift torrent. "I never knew a gal since I was raised. I never knew how she could git right hold of your heart, an' make the rest of the world seem nothing. I never knew how jest one woman could set the sun s.h.i.+ning when her blue eyes smiled, and the storm of thunder crowding over, when those eyes were full of tears. I never dreamed how she could get around in fancy, and walk by your side smilin' and talkin' to you when you wandered over these lonesome hills at your work. I never knew how she could come along an' raise you up when you're down, an' most everything looks black. I've learned these things now. I've learned 'em because you taught me."

He laughed with a sort of defiance at what he felt must sound ridiculous in her ears. "You asked me to teach you! Me teach you! Say, it's you taught me--everything. It's you taught me life ain't just a day's work an' a night's sleep. It's you taught me that life's a wonderful, wonderful dream of joy an' delight. It's you taught me the sun's s.h.i.+ning just for _me_ alone, an' every breath of these mountains is just to make _me_ feel good. It's you taught me to feel there's nothing on G.o.d's earth I couldn't and wouldn't do to make you happy.

You, who taught me to Live! You, with your wonderful blue eyes, an'

your beautiful, beautiful face. You, with your mind as white an' pure as the mountain snow, an' your heart as precious as the gold our folks are forever chasin'. I love you, Joan. I love you, every moment I live. I love you so my two hands ain't enough by a hundred to get helping you. I love you better than all the world. You're jest--jest my whole life!"

He stood with his arms outstretched toward the shrinking girl. His whole body was shaking with the pa.s.sion that had sent his words pouring in a tide of unthought, unconsidered appeal. He had no understanding of whither his words had carried him. All he knew was that he loved this girl with his whole soul and body. That she could love him in return was something unbelievable, yet he must tell her.

He must tell her all that was in his simple heart.