Part 53 (1/2)

His moment came. It came swiftly, suddenly, like most matters of great import. His opportunity came at the psychological moment, when the last shred of temperance had been torn from wild, lawless hearts, which, in such moments, were little better than those of savage beasts. It came when the poison of complaint and bitterness had at last searched out the inmost recesses of stunted, brutalized minds.

And Beasley s.n.a.t.c.hed at it hungrily, like a worm-ridden dog will s.n.a.t.c.h at the filthiest offal.

The drunken voice of Abe Allinson lifted above the general din. He was lolling against one end of the counter, isolated from his fellows by reason of his utterly stupefied condition. He was in a state when he no longer had interest for his companions. He rolled about blear-eyed and hopelessly mumbling, with a half-emptied gla.s.s in his hand, which he waved about uncertainly. Suddenly an impotent spasm of rage seemed to take hold of him. With a hoa.r.s.e curse he raised his gla.s.s and hurled it cras.h.i.+ng against the wall. Then, with a wild, prolonged whoop he shouted the result of his drunken cogitations.

”We'll burn 'em! Drown 'em! Shoot 'em! Hang 'em! Come on, fellers, foller me!”

He made a staggering effort to leave his support. He straightened up.

For a moment he poised, swaying. Then he pitched forward on his face and lay stretched full length upon the floor.

But all had heard. And Beasley s.n.a.t.c.hed at his opportunity. He sprang upon the counter in the moment of astonished quiet, and, before tongues broke loose again, he had the whole attention of the crowd.

”Here, boys,” he cried. ”Abe's right. Drunk as he is, he's right. Only he sure wants to do too much--more than his legs'll let him.” He grinned. ”We're goin' to do this thing right now. But we're goin' to do it like good citizens of a dandy city. We ain't goin' to act like a gang of lynchers. We're dealin' with a gal, with gold ha'r an' blue eyes, an' we're goin' to deal accordin'. We ain't lookin' fer her life. That's too easy, an', wal--she's a woman. No, we're goin' to rid this place of her an' all her tribe. We're goin' to make it so she can't stop to do no more harm, bringin' sheriffs around. We're goin'

to burn her home right out, an' we're goin' to set her in her wagon an' team, an' let her drive to h.e.l.l out of here. We're goin' to do it right now, before the sheriff gets busy along here. After that we'll be too late. Are you game? Who's comin'? We're goin' to burn that Jonah farm till ther' ain't a stick left above ground to say it ever stood there. That's what we're goin' to do, an' I'm the man who'll start the bonfire. Say, we'll make it like a fourth o' July. We'll have one royal time--an' we'll be quit of all Jonahs.”

As he finished speaking he leapt to the ground amidst the crowd. Nor did he need to wait to hear the response to his appeal. It came in one of those unanimous, drunken roars, only to be heard in such a place, at such a time, or on a battle-field, when insensate fury demands a raucous outlet. Every man in the place, lost, for the moment, to all the dictates of honest manhood, was ready to follow the leaders.h.i.+p of one whom, in sober moments, they all disliked. It was an extraordinary exhibition of the old savage which ever lies so near the surface in men upon the fringe of civilization.

Nor did Beasley give them time to think. His orders came rapidly. The bartender, for once his eyes sparkling at the thought of trouble about to visit an unsuspecting fellow-creature, hurled himself to the task of dealing out one large final drink to everybody. Then when a sufficient supply of materials of an inflammatory nature had been gathered together, the saloon-keeper placed himself at the head of his men, supported by the only too willing Diamond Jack, and the procession started out.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

STRONGER THAN DEATH

From the time of her aunt's going to Leeson b.u.t.te to the morning of her return to the farm Joan pa.s.sed through a nightmare of uncertainty and hopelessness. Every moment of her time seemed unreal. Her very life seemed unreal. It was as though her mind were detached from her body, and she was gazing upon the scenes of a drama in which she had no part, while yet she was weighted down with an oppressive fear of the tragedy which she knew was yet to come.

Every moment she felt that the threat of disaster was growing. That it was coming nearer and nearer, and that now no power on earth could avert it.

Twice only during that dreary interval of waiting she saw Buck. But even his presence did little more than ease her dread and despair, leaving it crus.h.i.+ng her down the more terribly with the moment of his going. He came to her with his usual confidence, but it was only with information of his own preparations for his defense of his friend. She could listen to them, told in his strong, reliant manner, with hope stirring her heart and a great, deep love for the man thrilling her every nerve. But with his going came the full realization of the significance of the necessity of such preparations. The very recklessness of them warned her beyond doubt how small was the chance of the Padre's escape. Buck had declared his certainty of outwitting the law, even if it necessitated using force against the man whom he intended to save.

Left to her own resources Joan found them weak enough. So weak indeed that at last she admitted to herself that the evidences of the curse that had dogged her through life were no matters of distorted imagination. They were real enough. Terribly real. And the admission found her dreading and helpless. She knew she had gone back to the fatal obsession, which, aided by the Padre and her lover, she had so loyally contended. She knew in those dark moments she was weakly yielding. These men had come into her life, had sown fresh seeds of promise, but they had been sown in soil choked with weeds of superst.i.tion, and so had remained wholly unfruitful.

How could it be otherwise? Hard upon the heels of Buck's love had come this deadly attack of fate upon him and his. The miracle of it was stupendous. It had come in a way that was utterly staggering. It had come, not as with those others who had gone before, but out of her life. It had come direct from her and hers. And the disaster threatened was not merely death but disgrace, disgrace upon a good man, even upon her lover, which would last as long as they two had life.

The sense of tragedy merged into the maddening thought of the injustice of it. It was monstrous. It was a tyranny for which there was no justification, and it goaded her to the verge of hysteria.

Whatever she did now the hand of fate would move on irrevocably fulfilling its purpose to the bitter end. She knew it. In spite of all Buck's confidence, all his efforts to save his friend, the disaster would be accomplished, and her lover would be lost to her in the vortex of her evil destiny.

Fool--fool that she had been. Wicked even, yes, wicked, that she had not foreseen whither her new life was drifting. It was for her to have antic.i.p.ated the shoals of trouble in the tide of Buck's strong young life. It was for her to have prevented the mingling of their lives. It was for her to have shut him out of her thoughts and denied him access to the heart that beat so warmly for him. She had been weak, so weak.

On every count she had failed to prove the strength she had believed herself to possess. It was a heart-breaking thought.

But she loved. It would have been impossible to have denied her love.

She would not have denied it if she could. Her rebellion against her fate now carried her further. She had the right to love this man. She had the right which belongs to every woman in the world. And he desired her love. He desired it above all things in the world--and he had no fear.

Then the strangeness of it. With all that had gone before she had had no misgivings until the moment he had poured out all the strength of his great love into her yearning ears. She had not recognized the danger besetting them. She had not paused to ask a question of herself, to think of the possibilities. She loved him, and the thought of his love thrilled her even now amidst all her despair. But the moment his words of love had been spoken, even with the first wonderful thrill of joy had come the reality of awakening. Then--then it was that the evil of her fate had unmasked itself and showed its hideous features, leering, mocking, in the memory of what had gone before, taunting her for her weakly efforts to escape the doom marked out for her.

All this she thought of in her black moments. All this and far, far more than could ever take shape in words. And her terror of what was to come became unspeakable. But through it all one thing, one gleam of hope obtruded itself. It was not a tangible hope. It was not even a hope that could have found expression. It was merely a picture that ever confronted her, even when darkness seemed most nearly to overwhelm her.