The Golden Woman Part 61

He was a strange figure. The tattered remains of his clothing were scarcely enough to cover his nakedness, and Joan, with loving, unskilled hands, had lavered and dressed his wounds with portions of her own undergarments and the waters of the creek, whither, earlier, she had laboriously supported his enfeebled body. But Providence had spared him an added mercy besides bringing him back to life. It seemed a sheer miracle that his bones had been left whole. His flesh was torn, his whole body was terribly bruised and lacerated, but that worst of all disasters in life had been spared him, and he was left with the painful use of every limb.

But the thought of this miracle left the man untouched. Only did Joan remember, and offer up her thankfulness. The man was of the wild, he was young, life was with him, life with all its joys and sorrows, all its shadowy possibilities, so he recked nothing of what he had escaped. That was his way.

While Joan's devoted eyes watched the steady light in his, staring out so intently at the wreck of world before him, no word pa.s.sed her lips.

It was as though he were the lord of their fate and she waited his commands.

But for long Buck had no thought for their personal concerns. He forgot even the pains which racked his torn body, he forgot even the regrets which the destruction he now beheld had first inspired him with. He was marveling, he was awed at the thought of those dread elements, those t.i.tanic forces he had witnessed at play.

There lay the hideous skeleton picked bare to the bones. Every semblance of the beauty lines, which, in the earth's mature completion, it had worn, had vanished, and only mouldering remains were left. How had it happened? What terrible, or sublime purpose, had been achieved during that night of terror? He could not think.

His eyes dropped to that which lay immediately before him. He was gazing into chaotic depths of torn black rock amidst which a great cascade of water poured out from the bowels of the earth and flowed on to join the waters of Yellow Creek. It was the site where had hung the suspended lake. Half the great hill had been torn away by some terrible subterranean upheaval, which seemed to have solely occurred on that side where the lake had been, and where the hill had confronted the distant camp. Gone were the workings of the miners.

Gone was that great bed of auriferous soil. And in their places lay an ocean of rock, so vast, so torn, that the power which had hurled it broadcast was inconceivable to his staggered mind.

For a while he contemplated the scene with thoughts struggling and emotions stirring. Then with a sigh he looked out beyond. The valley of the creek, that little narrow strip of open gra.s.s-land, bordered by pine forests all its length, was gone, too. The creek was now a wide-spread expanse of flowing water, which had swept from its path the last vestige of the handiwork of those people who had lived upon the banks of the original stream.

There was not a sign of a house or log hut to be seen anywhere. Gone, gone, swept away like the buildings of children's toy bricks.

What of those who had dwelt where the water now flowed? Had they, too, gone on the rus.h.i.+ng tide? He wondered. Where had been their escape?

Maybe they had had time. And yet, somehow it seemed doubtful. The skeleton forests stretched out on every hand to a great distance. They backed where the camp had stood. They rose up beyond the northern limits. To the west of the water it was the same. Had he not witnessed the furnace upon that side? And here, here to the south would they have faced this terrible barrier belching out its torrential waters, perhaps amidst fire and smoke?

He did not know. He could not think. They were gone as everything else that indicated life was gone, and--they two were left alone in a wilderness of stricken earth.

He sighed again as he thought of the gracious woods which the long centuries had built up. All Nature's wonderful labors, the patient efforts of ages, wiped out in a few moments of her own freakish mood.

It was heart-breaking to one who had always loved the wild hills where the all-powerful Dame's whimsies had so long run riot.

Then as he stared out upon the steaming horizon where hills greater and greater rose up confronting him and narrowed the limits of his vision, he saw where the dividing line ran. He remembered suddenly that even in her destructions Nature had still controlled. The floods of the heavens must have been abruptly poured out at some time during the night, or the fire would still be raging on, searching out fresh fuel beyond those hills, traveling on on and on through the limitless forests which lay to the north, and south, and west.

The memory gave him fresh hope. It told him that the world was still outside waiting to welcome them to its hostels. And so he turned at last to the patient woman at his side.

"It seems so a'mighty queer, little Joan," he said gently. "It seems so a'mighty queer I can't rightly get the hang of things.

Yesterday--yesterday--why, yesterday all this," he waved an arm to indicate the broken world about him, "was as G.o.d made it, an' now ther's jest ruin--blank ruin that'll take all your life, and mine, an'

dozens who're comin' after us to--to build up agin. Yesterday this camp was full of busy folk chasin' a livin' from the products Nature had set here. Now she's wiped 'em out. Why? Yesterday a good man was threatened by man's law, an' it looked as if that law was to suck us all into its web an' make criminals of us. Now he's gone an' the law'll be chased back to hunt around for its prey in places with less danger to 'em. It's all queer--mighty queer. An' it's queerer still to think of you an' me sittin' here puzzlin' out these things."

"Yes."

Joan nodded without removing her eyes from the face she loved so well.

Then after a pause she went on--

"You think--he's dead?"

Buck was some time before he answered her. His grave eyes were fixed on a spot across the water, where a break in the charred remains of the forest revealed a sky-line of green gra.s.s.

"How else?" he said, at last. "He was behind me with your aunt. He was on the hill. You've scoured what remains of the plateau. Wal, he ain't there, an' he didn't come down the path wher' we come. We ain't see 'em anyways. Yep," he went on, with a sigh, "guess the Padre's dead, an' one o' them rocks down ther' is markin' his grave. Seems queer. He went with her. She was the woman he had loved. They've gone together, even though she just--hated him. He was a good man an'--he'd got grit.

He was the best man in the world an'--an' my big friend."

His voice was husky with emotion, and something like a sob came with his last word, and Joan's eyes filled with tears of sympathy and regret.

"Tell me," he went on, after a pause. "I ain't got it right. The fall knocked you plumb out. An' then?"

His eyes were still on the distant break of the trees.

"I don't know what happened," Joan said wearily, spreading out her drenched skirt to the now blazing sun. "I know I woke up quite suddenly, feeling so cold that even my teeth were chattering. The rain was falling like--like hailstones. It was dark, so dark, and I was terribly afraid. I called to you, but got no answer, and--and I thought I was alone. It was terrible. The thunder had ceased, and the lightning was no longer playing. There was no longer any forest fire, or--or earthquakings. All was still and black, and the rain--oh, it was dreadful. I sat where I was, calling you at intervals. I sat on, and on, and on, till I thought the dark would never go, that day would never break again, and I began to think that all the world had come to an end, and I, alone, was left. Then at last the rain stopped, and I saw that day was breaking. But it was not until broad daylight that I knew where I was. And then--and then I saw you lying close at my feet.

Oh, Buck, don't let me think of it any more. Don't remind me of it. It was awful. I believed you were dead--dead. And it seemed to me that my heart died, too. It was so dreadful that I think I--I was mad. And then--you saved me--again."

Buck raised a stiff arm and gently drew her toward him with a wonderfully protecting movement. The girl yielded herself to him, and he kissed her sweet upturned lips.

"No, little Joan, gal. Don't you think of it. We got other things to think of--a whole heap."

"Yes, yes," cried the girl eagerly. "We've got life--together."

Buck nodded with a grave smile.

"An' we must sure keep it."

He released her and struggled to his feet, where he stood supporting himself by clinging to a projection of rock.

"What do you mean, Buck? What are you going to do?" Joan demanded anxiously, springing to her feet and shaking out her drenched skirt.

"Do? Why, look yonder. Ther' across the water. Ther' wher' them burnt-up woods break. See that patch o' gra.s.s on the sky-line? Look close, an' you'll see two--somethings standin' right ther'. Wal, we got to git near enough that way so Caesar can hear my whistle."

"Caesar? Is--is that Caesar? Why--how----?"

Buck nodded his head.

"Maybe I'm guessin'. I ain't sayin'. But--wal, you can't be sure this ways off. Y' see, Caesar has a heap o' sense, an' his saddle-bags are loaded down with a heap o' good food. An' you're needin' that--same as me."

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

LOVE'S VICTORY

The rightness of Buck's conjecture was proved before evening, but not without long and painful effort. Joan was utterly weary, and the man was reduced to such weakness and disability as, in all his life, he had never known.

But they faced their task with the knowledge that with every moment of delay in procuring food their chances of escape from that land of ruin were lessening. With food, and, consequently, with Buck's horse, safety would be practically a.s.sured. They would then, too, be able to prosecute a search for the man they both had learned to love so well.

With nightfall their hopes were realized, but only at a terrible cost to the man. So great had become his weakness and suffering that it was Joan who was forced to make provision for the night.

Both horses were grazing together with an unconcern that was truly equine. Nor, when reviewed, was their escape the miracle it appeared.

At the height of the storm they had been left on the farthest confines of the plateau of Devil's Hill, where no fire would reach them, and at a considerable distance from the lake. Their native terror of fire would have held them there in a state bordering on paralysis. In all probability no power on earth could have induced them to stir from the spot where they had been left, until the drenching rain had blotted out the furnace raging below. This had been Buck's thought. Then, perhaps, laboring under a fear of the quakings caused by the subterranean fires of the hill, and their hungry stomachs crying out for food, they had left the dreaded hill in quest of the pastures they craved.

The well-stocked saddle-bags, which Buck's forethought had filled for the long trail, now provided these lonely wanderers in the wilderness with the food they needed, the saddle-blankets and the saddles furnished their open-air couches, and the horses, well, the horses were there to afford them escape when the time came, and, in the meantime, could be left to recover from the effects of the storm and stress through which they, too, had pa.s.sed.

With the following dawn Buck's improvement was wonderful, and Joan awoke from a deep, night-long slumber, refreshed and hopeful. An overhauling of their supplies showed them sufficient food, used sparingly, to last a week. And with this knowledge Buck outlined their plans to the girl, who hung upon his every word.

"We can't quit yet," he said, when they had broken their fast.