Part 26 (1/2)

”Yes, except my love for you. That's right--an' I never expect to.”

”How about that jug? Can you whip that?”

”Why, yes, I could. If there was any need. I never tried it.”

”Suppose you try it for a while, and see.”

The man regarded her seriously. ”You mean, if I leave off packin' that jug, you'll----”

”I haven't promised anything.” The girl laughed a trifle nervously.

”But, I will tell you this much. I utterly despise a drunkard!”

Vil Holland nodded slowly. ”Let's get the straight of it,” he said.

”I didn't know--I didn't realize it was really hurtin' me any. Can you see that it does? Have I ever done anything that you know of, or have heard tell of, that a sober man wouldn't do?”

The girl felt her anger rising. ”n.o.body can drink as much as you do, and not be the worse for it. Don't try to defend yourself.”

”No, I wouldn't do that. You see, if it's hurtin' me, there wouldn't be any defense--an' if it ain't, I don't need any.”

For an instant Patty regarded the man who stood framed in the doorway.

”Clean-blooded,” the doctor had called him, and clean-blooded he looked--the very picture of health and rugged strength, clear of eye and firm of jaw, not one slightest hint or mark of the toper could she detect, and the realization that this was so, angered her the more.

Abruptly, she changed the subject, and the moment the brown leather jug was banished from her mind, her anger subsided. In the doorway, Vil Holland noted the undercurrent of suppressed excitement in her voice as she said: ”I have the most wonderful news! I--_I found daddy's mine!_” Seconds pa.s.sed as the man stood waiting for her to proceed. ”I found it to-day,” she continued, without noting that his lean brown hand gripped the hat brim even more tightly than before, nor that his lips were pressed into a thin straight line. ”And my stakes are all in, and in the morning I'm going to file.”

Vil Holland interrupted. ”You--you say you located Rod Sinclair's strike? You really located it?” Somehow, his voice sounded different.

The girl sensed the change without defining it. ”Yes, I really found it!” she answered. ”Do you want to know where?” Hastily she turned to the cupboard and taking a match from a box, lighted the lamp. ”You see,” she laughed, ”I am not afraid to trust you. I'm going to show you daddy's map, and his photographs, and the samples. Oh, if you knew how I've hunted and hunted through these hills for that rock wall! You see, the map was like so much Greek to me, until I happened by accident to learn how to read it. Before that, I just rode up and down the valleys hunting for the wall with the broad crooked crack in it.

Here it is.” The man had advanced to the table, and was bending over the two photographs, examining them minutely. ”And here's his map.” He picked up the paper and for several minutes studied the penciled directions. Then he laid it down, and turned his attention to the samples.

”High grade,” he appraised, and returned them to the table beside the photographs. ”So, you don't have to teach school,” he said, speaking more to himself than to her. ”An' you'll be goin' out of the hill country for good an' all. There's nothin' here for you, now that you've got what you come after. You'll be goin' back--East.”

Patty laughed, and as Vil Holland looked into her face he saw that her eyes held dancing lights. ”I'm not going back East,” she said. ”I've learned to love--the hill country. I have learned that--perhaps--there is more here for me than--than even daddy's mine.”

Vil Holland shook his head. ”There's nothin' for you in the hills,” he repeated, slowly, and abruptly extended his hand. ”I'm glad for your sake your luck changed, Miss Sinclair. I hope the gold you take out of there will bring you happiness. You've earnt it--every cent of it, an'

you've got it, an' now, as far as the hill country goes--the books are closed. Good-night, I must be goin', now.”

Abruptly as he had offered his hand, he withdrew it, and turning, stepped through the door, mounted his horse, and rode out into the night.

CHAPTER XIX

THE RACE FOR THE REGISTER

Beside the little table Patty Sinclair listened to the sound of hoofs splas.h.i.+ng through the shallows of the creek and thudding dully upon the floor of the valley beyond. When the sounds told her that the horseman had disappeared into the timber, she walked slowly to the door, and leaning her arm against the jamb, stared for a long time into the black sweep of woods that concealed the trail that led upward to the notch in the hills, just discernible against the sky where the stars showed through the last faint blush of after-glow in winking points of gold.

”Nothing here for me,” she repeated dully. ”Nothing but trees, and hills--and gold. He loves me,” she laughed bitterly. ”And yet, between me, and his jug, he chose--the jug.” She closed the door, slipped the bar into place, thrust the photographs and map into her pocket, and threw herself face downward upon the bunk. And, in the edge of the timber, Vil Holland turned his horse slowly about and headed him up the ravine. At the notch in the hills he slipped to the ground and, throwing an arm across the saddle, removed his Stetson and let the night wind ripple his hair. Standing alone in the night with his soul-hurt, he gazed far downward where a tiny square of yellow light marked the window of the cabin.

”It's h.e.l.l--the way things work out,” he said, thoughtfully. ”Yes, sir, Buck, it sure is h.e.l.l. If Len had told me a week ago about her havin' to teach school, or even yesterday--she might have--But, now--she's rich. An' that cracked rock claim turnin' out to be _hers_--” He swung abruptly into the saddle and headed the buckskin for camp.

Patty spent a miserable night. Brief periods of sleep were interspersed with long periods of wakefulness in which her brain traveled wearily over and over a long, long trail that ended always at a brown leather jug that swung by a strap from a saddle horn. She had found her father's claim--had accomplished the thing she had started out to accomplish--had vindicated her father's judgment in the eyes of the people back home--had circ.u.mvented the machinations of Bethune, and in all probability, the moment that she recorded her claim would be the possessor of more gold than she could possibly spend--and in the achievement there was no joy. There was a dull hurt in her heart, and the future stretched away, uninviting, heart-sickening, interminable. The world looked drab.