Part 6 (1/2)

Whatever were the facts of the case, Mountain Pink got the sympathy that might have been expected in a section of the country where the ratio of the s.e.xes is fifty to one. Chugg, eating her pies regularly once a week on his stage-route, said nothing, but he presented her with a red plush photograph alb.u.m with oxidized silver clasps, and by this first reckless expenditure of money in the life of Chugg, Natrona, Johnson, Converse, and Sweet.w.a.ter counties knew that Cupid had at last found a vulnerable spot in the tough and weather-tanned hide of the old stage-driver.

Nor did Cupid stop here with his pranks. Having inoculated the stage-driver with the virus of romance, madness began to work in the veins of Chugg. He presented Mountain Pink with the gray woollen stocking-not extracting a single coin-and urged her to get a divorce from the clodlike man who had never appreciated her and marry him.

Mountain Pink coyly took the stocking so generously given for the divorce and subsequent trousseau, and Chugg continued to drive his stage with an Apollo-like abandon, whistling love-songs the while.

Coincident with Mountain Pink's disappearance Dakotaward, in the interests of freedom, went also one Bob Catlin, a mule-wrangler. Bosky, with conspicuous pessimism, hoped for the worst from the beginning, and as time went on and nothing was heard of either of the wanderers, some of Mountain Pink's most loyal adherents confessed it looked ”romancy.” But crusty old Chugg remained true to his ideal. ”She'll write when she gets good and ready,” and then concluded, loyally, ”Maybe she can't write, nohow,” and nothing could shake his faith.

When Mountain Pink and the mule-wrangler returned as bride and groom and set up housekeeping on the remainder of Chugg's stocking, and on his stage-route, too, so that he had to drive right past the honeymoon cottage every time he completed the circuit, they lost caste in Carbon County.

Chugg never spoke of the faithlessness of Mountain Pink. His bitterness found vent in tipping over the stage when his pa.s.sengers were confined to members of the former Mrs. Bosky's s.e.x, and, as Leander said, ”the flask in his innerds held more.” And these were the only traces of tragedy in the life of Lemuel Chugg, stage-driver.

Judith had continued her unquiet pacing in the blinding glare while the group within doors, somnolent from the heat and the incessant shrilling of the locusts, droningly discussed the faithlessness of Mountain Pink, dozed, and took up the thread of the romance. Each time she turned Judith would stop and scan the yellow road, shading her eyes with her hand, and each time she had turned away and resumed her walk. Mary, who gave the postmistress no unstinted share of admiration for the courage with which she faced her difficulties, and who had been seeking an opportunity to signify her friends.h.i.+p, and now that she saw the last of the gallants depart, inquired of Judith if she might join her.

They walked without speaking for several minutes, enjoying a sense of comrades.h.i.+p hardly in keeping with the brevity of their acquaintance; a freedom from restraint spared them the necessity of exchanging small-talk, that frequently irritating toll exacted as tribute to possible friends.h.i.+p.

The desert lay white and palpitating beneath the noonday glare, and from the outermost rim of desolation came dancing ”dust-devils” whirling and gliding through the mazes of their eerie dance. ”I think sometimes,” said Judith, ”that they are the ghosts of those who have died of thirst in the desert.”

Mary shuddered imperceptibly. ”How do you stand it with never a glimpse of the sea?”

”You'll love it, or hate it; the desert is too jealous for half measures.

As for the sea”-Judith shrugged her fine shoulders-”from all I've heard of it, it must be very wet.”

Each felt a reticence about broaching the subject uppermost in her thoughts-Judith from the instinctive tendency towards secretiveness that was part of the heritage of her Indian blood; Mary because the subject so closely concerned this girl for whom she felt such genuine admiration.

Judith finally brought up the matter with an abruptness that scarce concealed her anxiety.

”You saw my brother yesterday at Mrs. Clark's eating-house; will you be good enough to tell me just what happened?”

Mary related the incident in detail, Judith cross-examining her minutely as to the temper of the men at table towards Jim. Did she know if any cattle-men were present? Did she hear where her brother had gone?

Mary had heard nothing further after he had left the eating-house; the only one she had talked to had been Mrs. Clark, whose sympathy had been entirely with Jim. Judith thanked her, but in reality she knew no more now than she had heard from Major Atkins.

Judith now stopped in their walk and stood facing the road as it rolled over the foot-hills-a skein of yellow silk glimmering in the sun. Then Mary saw that the object spinning across it in the distance, hardly bigger than a doll's carriage, was the long-delayed stage. She spoke to the postmistress, but apparently she did not hear-Judith was watching the nearing stage as if it might bring some message of life and death. She stood still, and the drooping lines of her figure straightened, every fibre of her beauty kindled. She was like a flame, paling the sunlight.

And presently was heard the uncouth music of sixteen iron-shod hoofs beating hard from the earth rhythmic notes which presently grew hollow and sonorous as they came rattling over the wooden bridge that spanned the creek.

”Chugg!” exclaimed Leander, rus.h.i.+ng to the door in a tumult. There was something crucial in the arrival of the delayed stage-driver. His delinquencies had deflected the course of the travellers, left them stranded in a remote corner of the wilderness; but now they should again resume the thread of things; Chugg's coming was an event.

”'Tain't Chugg, by G.o.d!” said Leander, impelled to violent language by the unexpected.

”It's Peter Hamilton!” exclaimed Mrs. Dax.

”Land's sakes, the New-Yorker!” said the fat lady. Only Judith said nothing.

Mr. Hamilton held the ribbons of that battered prairie-stage as if he had been driving past the judges' bench at the Horse Show. Furthermore, he wore blue overalls, a flannel s.h.i.+rt, and a sombrero, which sartorial inventory, while it highly became the slim young giant, added an extra comedy touch to his role of whip. He was as dusty as a miller; close-cropped, curly head, features, and clothes were covered with a fine alkali powdering; but he carried his youth as a banner streaming in the blue. And he swung from the stage with the easy flow of muscle that is the reward of those who live in the saddle and make a fine art of throwing the lariat.

They greeted him heartily, all but Judith, who did not trust herself to speak to him before the prying eyes of Mrs. Dax, and escaped to the house.

Chugg's latest excursion into oblivion had resulted in a fall from the box. He was not badly hurt, and recuperation was largely a matter of ”sleeping it off,” concluded Peter Hamilton's bulletin of the condition of the stage-driver. So the travellers were still marooned at Dax's, and the prospect of continuing their journey was as vague as ever.

”Last I heard of you,” said Mrs. Dax to Hamilton, with a sort of stone-age playfulness, ”you was punching cows over to the Bitter Root.”